Sunday, June 12, 2011

location ireland

cast iron nuggets

subject to the object
the matter in charge
whip of the backbone
teetering on the edge

how can one let go?
everything has an inner beauty

even in dying

and death
it is to be lived

alive among the decaying

time capsule
stillness surrounds
dripping memories
post-surgical stress

metal implants
relics remain
erratic features
impregnated terrain

organs scattered
discarded limbs
larger schemes

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

central park lungs of the city

here one can imagine nature taking back
the physical architecture - the processes of commerce
transforming the life of the city into a communion
with organic flows outside of productivity and performance
a simple enhancement of daily practice
where the trees are equals of intelligence we have yet to grasp
(we creeping vines that strangle through all-conquering desire)
a symbiosis of animal and plant cells engaging with mineral structures
oxygentank for natural charge
unkempt - unruly
wild entropy - ecstatic growth
life cycles of organic soup bubbling
fermenting amid the NY elite microwave

"they should be treating us like royalty"

here in this fantasy garden
a cultured wilderness maintained for the few
decorated horses pull carriages day-in day-out
unthankful burden of self important parades
animal rights protestors jeer and wave
disapproval at the equine lot

look the other way
hide your frosty breath in fur and camel hair collars
make up will hide that fake regret
spray-on station maintains this life to be led
If only one would wake from one's walking sleep
raise the consciousness and live one's living dream

this could be an harmonic scene but the truth is;
it masks the monstro-city of that which lubricates the wheels of power
a pleasant screen field where we almost rub shoulders with that which we cannot


valentine rejection subway 33

arms raised high
come gift crashing down
smashed smithereens skating
on time trodden tiles
black sharded shockwave
epicentre anguished youth

no consolation
at the inopportune moment
of no consent
to love lost in loss
a public performance
of the tragic hero
we cannot intervene
from the other side of the tracks

witnessing from within
personal bubbles of thought

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

corona park

we have overpassed the future

rarified gaseous envelope
of sun and other stars
made visible during solar eclipse
silver glowing dark moon disc
illuminated trace of energy release

mega relics
present overpassed
speak of
past futures
mass enthusiasm
of childhood dreams
appropriated surpassed
beautiful winter desolation
the aura of a future promise
all boarded up - broken glass
dripped stained - concrete flake
cracked - frayed edge entropy
of old brave new worlds
jetsons park benches
ancient curves
do not invite
ice-age thaw

is this how we are going to live
at this point in someone else's future
no more rain on skin
no more sun in eyes
our honeycomb skies
a membrane limit
on our capacity to survive

in geodesic ark
shelter shield
from poisoned winds


Saturday, March 19, 2011

the graveyard shift

starts before it begins
subway doowop gospel quartet
one dollar bonus ride
donkey jacket knuckle five
keeps a smile on your face
keeps your forehead wrinkle free
keeps your hair from being messed up
"Thanks everyone,
you just bought us
three packets
of oreo." ha ha
"By the end of the day,
we are goin' to be flyin'!"
subterranean high speed
whistle stop jammin
sweeping through
collecting loose
I am saved
rockin on down
under 25th

the graveyard shift:
the one who patrolled
the cemetery at night
to listen for the cries
of the resurrected
buried before their time

to draw attention to
the re-awakened
state of death
please pull
a string tied
to your former deceased finger
passed through a hole in the casket
connected to a bell or flag

dead ringer saved by the bell

pyramid saves remains
wave to liberty

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Chapel of Sweet Dreams

Turn-Up, Tune-In, Turn-On, Echo-Echo
@ St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Coney Iceland

Coney Island is an isle not an island

a Russian enclave in the heart of US

ice and snow cover the sandy beach

countless, dormant seagulls squat

surf scavenging snowballs

the Brave put the brave face into weather vein

forever strolling on the boardwalk planks’ pain

puffed up quilted skydiving promenade

tears torn from too tender eyes

jaw face numbed to ice blasted skin

rides moan mournful - dirges to desolation

once bright - peeling paint - candy cannot lift

un - peopled, un - moving empty sensations

seafront saloons gone wild west ghost town

dodge city deserted SHOOT THE FREAK fun

abandoned, decaying, corroded, uncared-for

waiting for spring clean new investment to come

finding shelter reminds me of past days spent

at so many seaside towns of youth

seeking respite amid silent out of season concrete

hands shaking blue intensely to construct

gratefully received bites of brutish food

accepting grainy crunches of seasoning sand

with a hunger greater than hygene

or sophistication

Seagulls dance closer

performing for scraps

no time here for loitering

savouring the meal

whisk all back into the bag

dash off to find

the warmth of a cup of coffee

Walk down Brighton beach to the Russian zone, where the inhabitants live in the same giant apartment blocks as can be found in soviet monumental ‘new city’ housing projects.

Occasional old folk occupy benches

white knuckled hands hold

pocket radios to ears

catch scratch crackled chattering ether

Russian tin can broadcast

through white noise wind

no day to be at the beach

no expectancy in the crude and rude amusements

shut-down shuttering resigned to knowing

there will be no punters today

nothing to animate the inanimate

except flapping plastic bags

clinging to lightbulbs and lampposts

spectral sand shapes whisking about

expansive vacant shores

in vain searches

only to fall away...

Chilled to the bone head emptied

eyes wet made red make for train

without even desire for souveneir

Passing monumental tribute

to world hotdog eating championships

reflecting the level popular culture has attained here

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Coffee Bar in Bay Ridge

Here is a slice of down-home-town americana
no trendy types here
ex-servicemen and their wives
fried breakfasts
talking 'bout the movies
eggs and sausages sizzle...

"never saw Sam that man."


"They caught him in the act."

"This is not an asylum."

"Are you sure?"

"They're gonna give you a number
You gotta write the number down."

"Sad about Tommy wasn't it?"


"Y'know, he used to come in here three or so times a week,
have his omelete, read the newspaper..."


"In fact he always sat just where you are sitting."

"I'd better move then."

"Ha ha!"

"No, you're ok. It doesn't matter where you're sittin'.
When your time is up, you gonna go."

"He he"