The Panther

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

	   Rainer Maria Rilke    translated by Stephen Mitchell

wherefore

forthcoming, promise

FORM Arcosanti Festival 2018. AZ. 35mm Happy Accidents

POEM

“Playing Chess before the WWI Memorial in Prospect Park”

Don’t waste life counting all your dead just yet–
Your next century mine.

Knights and bishops losing face.
Kings surrounded, kings surrounded.

Mirrored cowards tall and warring
warn poets, pawns and queens.

100 years since your men first died
like toys in a microwave.

Oh diminished thing,
Oh they’re melting!

Play again and sing their names:

Goodlord kahin open omen/
Far more Mac’s than Cohen’s chosen/
Orpheus caught in a turret gutted/
Chess alone in hell.

Imagine mothers’ names here too,
As if Azrael tried to drag them quietly down.

In the lake nearby a red swan backwardskates with our rooks perched on its head.

It–bloodly creature–puddled good, 
then puddled dead.

Children from everywhere sound the same playing or dying.

Asphodel chokes the air before this monument,
or is it rose?
Arise dead angels and chant our pawns to rest in perfect, planted rows.

Exposure study // dream catching

Vigilante iOS App Walkthrough / Demo NYC

Testing out the new “Vigilante” iOS app in Brooklyn, 10/26/16

File under “Life imitates art”

(Source: vimeo.com)

Gagosian Gallery, 21st St, NYC - Richard Serra “NJ-1″ 

full strawberry solstice moon, prospect park, brooklyn ny

No more parties in BK

POEM

TWO ACORNS

(1)

Mel had a part of her
that very early on
knew that god both could not
and must exist at once.

This kind of magical thinking
brought her trouble.

When Mel, now 28,
meets a boy now,
when Melanie here sees her a big old boy,
Mel do it how she WANNA.

Layering the cake on so thick-ly
bettern’t make Mel any less tickly,
hoped the boys.

The Boys is here in my room with me now,
roaring in that big blue song (as they do).

It is the same chant every time:

I will live for-ev-er/
The company isn’t dying/
I love you honestly god I do/
That my parents were not lying!

(2)

All of the people that you are connected to on social media
(“connected” as in your email will not trigger their
email, snail mail, or menu-under-the-door spam filters).

So: All of the humans that you know
across your various online networks
are shown as small white circles
on a black background.

A 3D model of these circles.
They’re all incandesent spheres, now.
We are circling them slowly—
approximately 1 rotation per every 10
seconds.

Just enough to notice that there is movement.

(This poem wouldn’t have any advertisements in it if you had any taste worth mentioning.)

All of the other people that you know
on this or any earth right now
(that you can prove, anyway).

There are plenty of others on there that don’t have a circle anymore
because they’ve long since died.

Suspend for a moment your disbelief
and know that nothing is real but these words
in your head, that your house is made of dust.

No one is getting the call about The Big One in advance
except the rich-getting-richer.

Anyway we are calling you to action.
Anyway can you ask all of them
to send money
instead of flowers.