I sat down inside a pause in time In a still pool of silence a formidable ring, where bright stars crashed into the twelve black, floating numerals. from Ode to Walt Whitman and Other Poems, Translated by Carlos Bauer (1988 City Lights Books)

“How could you have corrupted a nice boy like that? my father asked me out of your hearing when for Thanksgiving I brought you home. It was easy — I drew on your already having been corrupted by a dream, which after meeting you that night at Chaps I helped you realize. I only failed in not being able to draw corruption out for good.  Instead, we became friends — with a similar dream. Or is it — corrupt, I mean?...

When I was a kid in summer camp, around 13teen & one night I lay asleep in bungalow bed with 13teen other boys, when in comes one of the camp councilors who is nice fellow that likes ya, comeing to my bed, sits down & starts to say: now you will be leaving soon back to Flushing & I may never see you again — but if theres ever aneything I can do to help ya let me know, my farther is a lawyer & I live at such...

Peter died in a paper tiara cut from a book of princess paper dolls; he loved royalty, sashes and jewels. I don’t know, he said, when he woke in the hospice, I was watching the Bette Davis film festival on Channel 57 and then — At the wake, the tension broke when someone guessed the casket closed because he was in there in a big wig and heels, and someone said, You know he’s always late, he probably isn’t...

Somewhere between the restless whispers and silent promises, before this war even reached the homeland, ex-lovers lingered like replases and fractured friendships staggered like fresh brush strokes distorting the unfinished canvas of collaboration My art has become casualty to a tained struggle over land unholy I have been left blinded by the stillness of abstract portraits of pleasures past Intoxicated by the fumes of jealousy My...

Honestly, I just re-subscribed to The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago after being away from it for a few years.  Just didn’t have the time to keep up, such long articles and all.  But if I’d not already done so, coming upon Alex Ross’ “Love on the March” from the November 12 issue would probably have been enough to get me back as a subscriber.  There may be no music journalism better than...

A central city is males up. A central city’s a cluster of corporate cocks and capital’s pride.* Video is the ejaculate of the gleaming corporate cocks; by video they assert  & cum inside your home to breed their money-fodder   *right now Chicago’s Mr. Sears has the biggest one. from Joys & Perplexities (1992, The Jargon Society) 

Within this restless, hurried, modern world We took our hearts’ full pleasure – You and I, And now the white sails of our ships are furled, And spent the lading of our argosy. Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, For very weeping is my gladness fled, Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion, And Ruin draws the curtais of my bed. But all this crowded life has been to thee No more then lyre, or lute,...

“Chariots of Fire” playing off the back of a semi-truck becomes more than a metaphor for life after this neo heaven gives its last call without the help of stars lacking contracts. Tonight I’ve danec slow with topless women, ancient couples and men who own the irng but not the wife; we hold each other with passiong found in the bottom of us. Our tongues are breathalysters proecting us from mourning sobriety....