It begins here,

at the height of the deep, dissolving into air, stretched out in an incomprehensible amalgam of cables and fiber optics, cut through canals and manifest in the brawny 19th century infrastructure of railroads and sea lanes, sweaty rare-earth minerals yo-yoing from satellites inimitably connected to the infinity of lenses and sensors all focused on the two-thousand plus miles between us in this sinewy twinge of machines all inexplicably called vaporous.

But, I am sitting here and this maudlin basement is as solid as the karaoke crooners nailing all the high notes and melting over one another in the corner.

They sing,

a total eclipse

I am dug out under the scattered sky of green and ruby laser-pricks on the lacquered tin.

I am giving in to remembering, slipping in the music and it is summer, the leaves are thick with perfume laying over our necks, the wet air wears us down, radiating from our skin while the echo of the dirty beach plays thin in my ears, seesawing on phantom waves next to your shoulders freckling constellations in the cooling hour, it doesn’t mean a thing, settle down into the weight of it, let those laser-lights above cut and warp over one another slipping slowly under your eyes and


float out the door,

under the pale moon

skip over the rooftops

like Fantomas

swooning against my arm,

chasing phantoms of us

forget the shattering heartache of it all

forget the rows and the uncertainty

dusted in snow beneath these pinprick stars, the city is ripe with excavations.

Read again,

“And when everyone had gone

and just the two of us were left

among the empty glasses and dirty ashtrays,

how beautiful it was to know that you

were there like an oasis,

alone with me at the night’s edge,

and you were lasting, you were more than time,

you were the one who wouldn’t leave

because one pillow

one warmth

was going to call us again

awake to the new day,

together, laughing, disheveled.” 1


It is all I can do not to burrow to you now

singing a psalm slung low

listening in to the past, listless in the present

before the end of terrestrial,

in the air between us charged

listening to the present listening to the past,

and never arriving

If I could tie into that vertical hex of slipped grids tonight I would root that mountain down and disappear into the "beautiful past" with you


Do you remember,

When even here, at the center of the universe it could still seem silent?

The distance between spaces seemingly stretching out in an incalculable void?

Having no idea what your friends had been doing?

And the discovery of some stupid bootleg appearing like a holy relic?

I am walking down the middle of Broadway past Canal Jeans in the snow at the center of the universe in the unknown spaces between them and us and it is silent.


What is that saying about the things that are gone becoming more real than the things that are here?


Really, weren’t we just play-acting then too, slumping in the corner-booth down at the Rock Star Bar?

Acting out our Voidoid-dreams as if even then this city had a need for our illicit fantasies?

You know,

They shaped high-rises from the rubble. It's Little Denver now. All our Cities look alike now. More and more, I forget the differences or even to ask for directions, because why would I? Only the Africola is still exotic and only the sense of displacement remains.

And then that other rubble stays other rubble

Far away in memes

Wired to the empire



This bro with his un-buttoned shirt limp in the still night air is leaning from his door howling for his bro with the suitcase ringing the wrong bell next door.

Love on the intercom.

They are going so hard.

Barbaric yawps each.

They are boring into us distracting us with foolishness and pitiful miracles promising epic wallpaper, dopamine and fresh underwear on demand.

There is no this or that way,

and nobody said not to go.



When I close my eyes,

It is a sea blue night

we are lying still on a hill in the woods

and there are horses nearly trotting on my head.


This is and isn’t real




when the sudden summer storm finally turns,

I hear these voices like the split-screens

I used to walk around recording on cassette tapes

and I wake,

stuck on the mirror scrutinizing lines wondering, “Just how bad is this all going to get?”

Wait it out with me


On ruins


Watch the sea rise shattering against the sparkling new condominiums, the long swell of waves breaking on Fulton Street, the BQE collapsing under the weight of it while we cling to the mulch of our paper arks

There is room for the both of us

To wait it out



Under the earth, in this bar

Under the lasers



With the evening

came lit windows opening

And radios

In the spring,

men shaved their hair to show their neck

In and of itself, there is not much to say about it

Our bodies were as bodies are

Stretching across avenues to the places between.

Where once there was something else to bare.

Time passes, and what of it?


Restlessness falls down summer leaves

our feet running against air

a rumble shakes our ears

through the shattered water

breaking loudly

against the empty sky

  1. Julio Cortázar, "DespuÉs de las fiestas"

    Y cuando todo el mundo se iba
    y nos quedábamos los dos
    entre vasos vacíos y ceniceros sucios,

    qué hermoso era saber que estabas
    ahí como un remanso,
    sola conmigo al borde de la noche,
    y que durabas, eras más que el tiempo,

    eras la que no se iba
    porque una misma almohada
    y una misma tibieza
    iba a llamarnos otra vez
    a despertar al nuevo día,
    juntos, riendo, despeinados