Some Stuff

The City Stands Still

Evan on Ice

This guy runs, marches
across a ceaseless salt
flat. Tracing the tracks
of the earth's curve.
Blue pants, white salt
white shirt, blue sky.

There are only two
movements and the mountains
sky, salt and clouds
make this clear.
The dash in the air of his march.
The diagonal in the stare of her lens.

What planet swell,
what arctic tundra
in a t-shirt is there
for life to paint its
dirty action on?

I want opaque atmospheres
of ancient stillness
under animal action blood.

Define my movement.

I want a pallet of pure salt flat
to force my form
into a black shadow,
flat on ice.

The earth tilts
for the runner
and the artist
tilts for the earth

and all the blue sky
just deepens dark until
space is white sand again,
or black shadows crammed create
some certain white gaps in glow
where planets light camps across
their lands and lakes and

big city kids just jump
at white t-shirt tundra
and blue jean blue sky.

Poem @ Modulo!

Check out my poem and other cool stuff at Modulo.

This poem received an honorable mention by The Academy of American Poets for the 2010 Burton A. Goldberg Poetry Prize at Brooklyn College, CUNY.

Is it Fleet Week?

6 sailors in hats
mumble through
lower Manhattan

Decorated,
2 swift sailors
advance in formation

Destination ahead,
a nod and a blue-eyed wink
"The streets are safe citizen."

4 sailors reconvene
Destination: Libation

R.I.P. Freddy's

Pulling the tiny magnet lights off the ceiling,
a blue one still burns in my pocket.

"Fuck Ratner."
"Fuck Marty."
"I fought the law and-"

"We're not charging anymore but-" common'
leave a tip for Donald.

Stamped out cigarettes, red faces/screaming faces.

Adam said: "The last beer, the last piss, the last buzz..."
The most relieving piss I've ever had
and we read the walls for the last time:

"Dad, go home, you're drunk."

The Saudi Agenda played all night/morning:
"George Bush
Bill Clinton
George Bush
Sandwich!"

We beat out the rhythms
and on the way home
tore at the banner
spat at the fence

Evan said: "We're gonna
fill the bulldozer's gas tanks with Coca-Cola...
That way the engine will blow
and we won't be charged with terrorism!"

Trampled a bar, a shelter, a neighborhood.
Goldstein was there in yellow, "Develop Don't Destroy."
Goldstein was there in the pit.

Could've been our last day on earth.

[...and I'm from Manhattan?
No, it wasn't my neighborhood.
But what's left of my neighborhood?
A Starbuckduanereadurbanoutfitericanapparel
on every corner?
Take a housing project, raise the rent
call them luxury condos.]

My first show with The Brooklyn What.
Lani's birthday- the giraffe cake.
John crowd surfing to "Robert Pollard."
Whiskeys with Yelena
while Jamie drank White Russians.

And now I'm at Atlantic and the Q train is here.

I'm going back home but
a blue light still burns in my pocket.