Hurricane musings

8/27/2011

4p.m.
The sky is beginning to tear itself apart, with sporadic bursts of water.
There is an unsettling quiet as it builds behind the naked eye.
So for now: coffee, pot pie, and waiting.

9p.m.
The anxiety I feel right now is unlike
anything I have ever dealt with before.
I wish I understood the root of this.
I've lived through many blizzards in the mountains,
but somehow, this is different.

Threw up, first full blown anxiety attack.
Feel better now, heading to the hotel
to hopefully calm down.

11p.m.
Tea, and a moment to sit helped,
now the storm might not hit until
tomorrow morning.
Learned the hard way that the 24 hour
news cycle is vomit inducing.

The signs have begun the rattle
and the winds really does sound
like the devils howl.
Non the less, I do feel better.

8/28/2011
Wild visions, signs rattle violently,
jesus my gut feels strange,
whole body seems alien like
being drunk of some old forgotten fear!

2a.m.
Fire alarm went off,
whole floors of confused people up
and nervous, now back to sleep
while I sit awake and worried,
wishing I had someone to talk to.

3a.m.
Distractions!
Jesus what I wouldn't give for em' now!

4a.m.
Fear is such a strange thing,
eventually it exhausts the body
so much it becomes incapable of
feeling it.

6a.m.
Still more than anything,
I need to avoid the news.

poem -
(Information)

25 hours,
onslaught, buy or fear
it continues like stone.
Always laying its pretense
d
o
w
n

Unified by desire,
moving materials
placement,
aligned monetary symmetry,
blessed by the gaping mouths.
No real hunger when it's spoon-fed,
no real production
when it's produced.
Without cause or ideal,
manic purchases,
or loss of appetite,
as in broken sinks collecting fear,
as in over stuffed as we are,
with information,
info
info
info info info info info info info info!
The snake which devours its' own tail!

5p.m.

It is finished, haven't slept in hours.
Good night.

Vanish

A formal apology for silence,
the emerging memory of places and scents,
every gesture,
departing footsteps,
the fog of four a.m.
A pas de trios with a celestial gaze
to the bark of familiarity.
A place full of objects,
full of disorganized sequences.
A place with a great empty table,
full of wine and insects.
And all the cards vanish,
and the numbers structure the faces,
and the ace is a burning clock,
and the joker is seeking God,
and the king has no kingdom,
and the queen weeps in fear of:
bugs,
spilled milk,
emptiness,
hair,
contact and empathy,
ovaries,
sunlight moving up dirt roads,
of coming home,
coming home.

And the ink bleeds to ash.
Everyone knows the deck is stacked,
so we smoke cigarettes and make love in the woods...
come to breath and bath in absence.

A great list, ordered sentences, summer heat,
the milky thought of repetition, blinding the eye of god.

Bar

The people sit,
catatonic, sweating,
while she squeezes limes,
and the television distracts us,
(we are quite content with this)
they talk about their poetry,
and the worth of others,
as the bartender sways her hips,
and we collectively dream of greatness.
The bearded man and young girl,
slowly get loose,
expelling the Greek,
the light catches her glazed eyes...
We are bombarded with images,
a thousand points, rising to the surface,
extracted bits of brilliance,
warm wood,
the presence of home.
And what of this?
And what of us?

Coney Island

The boards stretch towards,

the horizon, bending in,

and the rain has ended

as they chase recurrences in Bronx twilight.

The cyclists, couples, cooks, bums, and fishermen

are all fixed out there.

So am I, I suppose,

sitting on this sticky bench,

with a beer, under the shadow

of broken rides and tin gates.

The barmaid mixes drinks,

and washes the tables with grace,

and I feel like getting drunk,

and I haven't slept,

and I miles from certainty,

but something...something makes me calm.

Perhaps familiarity, or the familiar

of the unknown.

I am...going to be here a while.

The rides have all shut down,

suspended sculptures of sex & eyes & youth.

And I want so much,

contact implicate in it's inevitability.

A drunk stumbles to catch his footing,

the clouds swallow an already hazy sun,

a woman bares herself under the showers,

to remove sand,

perhaps to feel...

An old man washes a pear,

delicately.

Something about salt and sand and shadows,

suggests form and curve/

the importance of rocks and the

ways sleep eludes us.