Grime evolves, you know?
At first, it’s dust…
… like a powdered donut,
if not gobbled up it could fly away.
Then it becomes g r i t.
Endurance prevails at this stage.
It’s no Everest Peak, but HELL if I’d climb it!
You get the picture.
Timeless, evolutionary grime coats the walls of our great- great- great- grandfather’s bricks.
I can’t imagine the first settler in NYC.
Could he even fathom that his broom closet has now become a kitchen?
If Godliness is cleanliness, there is no God here, in the Big Apple.
In case you ask.
I want to trace the trail
of constellations that pepper your eyes
and dust [star]-dust
into the crevices of your soul;
the same crevice
I want to crawl into
To never emerge.
For there, shines sheer shivering brilliance,
a love unparalleled:
friendship, proportion, and faith.
Not a love that overthrows life,
or riots the heart;
but instead a map
built with stardust
revealing infinite paths
to the amber glow of this,
[whatever this is],
A hush of marmalade ashh reaches;
rooftops swaddled in Steam’s grasp tremble terra-cotta tears
of [salt ‘n vinegar] chips
tumbling, with conviction, to an untimely
They watch, shingles shivering, breathing
life unto New York’s souls.
They, who watch wistfully, subliminally
remind of sea-faring mothers;
She rides, floating, among the feathers of our birds;
fused upon decadence: the street-zel’s crown jewel.
Her legacy, culture if you will, emanates
in the alleys of her relentless rodents;
her mascot knows, sees, feels,
Her breath is the aroma of displaced decadencies,
perhaps this week’s trend, or my bleeding paper that holds
the scales upon which she resides.
“What’s for dinner?” they breathe…
“Home,” she replies.
Shelled and eviscerated they lay
two shriveled avocado skins,
basking in the afterglow of devour.
Bequeathed nectar nourishes,
their job here is done.
Decadence envelopes my every whim as I sit
sun-slashed and shed reality’s
A sharp intake of clarity reveals a truth long forgotten.
Decreed thee, Sir Adirondack:
Only the[e] sea holds the key
to my heart.
With your beady,
With your shaming
Your gift is bountiful,
Thus we hollowly
Serve, your beadiness
With the sweat
Of our unrequited
Perishing an anguished
At the hands
Of our predecessors’
We lay flat,
A despairing song
Echoes in the hollowness
Of our minds
Muffled by the
Of your beady gaze.
I spy: Feminist Magazine: Let’s Talk About It
Stafford Springs, muse: Emily Deford
Sometimes, the fire growls.
dull grey coats a sleepy spirit.
Live, fill everything and float…
Elated spirits come at a cost unbeknownst to no man it seems.
The weight of the world crushes,
filling spaces with gravel and sand.
A memory vanished?
Why must it be that way!
Bare feet slap concrete in a glassy haste.
Clinking clavicles chime to the tune of a chilling reality.
Life: (n) a prescribed trajectory mindlessly fulfilling its fated assembly line.
Dreams of innovation cloud a dusty reality.
She weeps, for at midnight,
her carriage will sprout
and her mirage will have
Alexandre Farto a.k.a. Vhils (London)
There was once a little boy who had many extraordinary powers.
When he was younger, he could change colors to blend in to his background.
It was a game he used to play.
Blend in to pretend.
“I’m a camouflaged soldier! Nobody can find me here. I’m safe from:
I can look up
at the bottom of my bed
he can’t get me here.”
GD 3.15.14 student teaching