the perilous Precinct Number 9
which finds existence out of time.
where priceless deviants collect
and penniless officers defect.
the present being worth a dime
the past preemptive with neglect.
this precinct's crumbling stone facade
by all aesthetic sense is flawed.
the mortar cracks, and falls at will,
a cryptic meaning from a faded seal.
the message as handed down by god,
but time erased it's ancient zeal.
as anyone knows they must confess,
the inside's even more a mess.
stacks of documents old and new,
a vending machine that's busted through.
the bathroom stall's a roaches nest
and every doorknob's caked in goo.
streams of ghosts and empty men
that line the walls of every pen.
blue faced fathers float on high
and stone cold mothers ponder why
he fell face first in life again,
sank down deep and prepped to die.
the perilous Precinct Number 9
it steals itself outside of time.
an obelisk of redemptive shame
a worship place with an empty name.
in military step and cult-like rhyme
is ancient Precinct Number 9.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Old man, old man.
old man, old man, draped in cob webs and ancient theories.
he, whose house is a storage facility for no where.
he, who doesn't believe in the sterilizing properties of soap, harlot to humanity.
he, who dreads possession, who fears possession, who dreads the material stealing us away from our symbiotic roots.
he, who understands not, these strange american beasts, these creatures who shutter at his house of life and spiders, spiders more like mammals all that hair and high-minded nocturnal intent under the ghastly sheets of foreign strangers.
he, who scorns the american beasts for their culture of waste, of food thrown to rot, of souls grown to rot, of stomachs and tongues never satisfied, of hearts always bleeding.
he, who in the confines of his mid-day siesta hide-away, in his ramshackle hut, in his tiny corner of lost paradise wept, silent for the millions of empty stomachs, millions of miles away.
he, who in moments of humble and enigmatic greatness, licks his hand, then hand to ground, then hand to mouth, and in doing so casts his vote for existence outside of self, and was eternally mocked by foreign un-dignitaries.
he, who explained to me in my patrician frustration how to properly construct a stone wall, that it must be sensual like the curve of a beautiful woman.
he, who floating on a great cloud of his own ascetic beauty, played eastern harmonies on brass bowls, his closest friends these buddhist bowls, these empty gods.
he, surrounded by friends and family, but always other people's friends, and other people's families.
old man, old man, keeper of lost time.
he, whose house is a storage facility for no where.
he, who doesn't believe in the sterilizing properties of soap, harlot to humanity.
he, who dreads possession, who fears possession, who dreads the material stealing us away from our symbiotic roots.
he, who understands not, these strange american beasts, these creatures who shutter at his house of life and spiders, spiders more like mammals all that hair and high-minded nocturnal intent under the ghastly sheets of foreign strangers.
he, who scorns the american beasts for their culture of waste, of food thrown to rot, of souls grown to rot, of stomachs and tongues never satisfied, of hearts always bleeding.
he, who in the confines of his mid-day siesta hide-away, in his ramshackle hut, in his tiny corner of lost paradise wept, silent for the millions of empty stomachs, millions of miles away.
he, who in moments of humble and enigmatic greatness, licks his hand, then hand to ground, then hand to mouth, and in doing so casts his vote for existence outside of self, and was eternally mocked by foreign un-dignitaries.
he, who explained to me in my patrician frustration how to properly construct a stone wall, that it must be sensual like the curve of a beautiful woman.
he, who floating on a great cloud of his own ascetic beauty, played eastern harmonies on brass bowls, his closest friends these buddhist bowls, these empty gods.
he, surrounded by friends and family, but always other people's friends, and other people's families.
old man, old man, keeper of lost time.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
(a selection from an unwritten whole)
He awoke in a strange and densely populated urban landscape, fenced on all sides by crapping animals and people who spoke only his surname. He moves among the folly. He flies by night, he speaks silent words and only to himself. He observes the ghosts, the nighttime embers burning from moving lamps, four wheel drives, and swaying hips. The shirt collars and v necks cut the night around him, mini skirts and tassel tops reveal the musculature of intent. He walks these streets; long, endless latters.
Faceless voids he passes swiftly, round wrist-watched men, trailing lonely sons. His watch...his watch stopped ticking. He wears it for reasons unknown, he thinks of it as his piece of lost time. Picking up speed, climbing sidewalk latters, the pace kept by rhythms in his mind. Passing shoulder steamboats bumbing and shoving, disturbing the pace of his rhythm, his footstep melody. These men passing, men who see directions that apparently he does not. Men who specialize in the acquisition of wealth, the profit of deceit, the collection of identical shirt collars. Men whose shoulders confuse him with their broadness, whose minds confuse him with their narrow broken compass. Directions lost to him, and for this reason, they bump, they shove, they see fortune in the nighttime.
Swing, flap, ding; a smoke shop door plays backup in his somber midnight tune. Tempted in a new burning and by recommendation of Raul the shop keep, he purchases his first cigar. At $2.50, he guesses that this purchase will yield minimal respect from Raul, but the will to burst forth into a new, albeit, thin wall of experience proves too irresistible. For this occasion, a degree of ceremony is in order. Ceremony which desires of him a unique surrounding. In a city such as this, unique becomes drowned in it's own presence. A bench will do.
To bite down on one end, as he's witnessed in films, is a choice and a sudden one. Instant impact, the wall beginning to break. He's bitten too much. The dry tobacco in his mouth, wet with spit; chewing on withered thoughts, old and forgotten, the memories he's stolen, the memories he's lost. He spits, someone, distant but still, has witnessed his ceremony, someone has stolen a glance at his great solo performance. Overcome by invisible jazz, he ignites the match. The performance continues. Bravo pour le clown! Breaths, breathing, the soul of thought, the essence of memory, the inevitable destruction of material, burning before him, he breaths as if at this moment this breath were his only chance, his last great homage to the lost, to the forgotten, and he is dizzied by the weight of this honor. He exhales.
Though the true Jazz is lost, it sizzles on in his twilight late night dizziness, spirals out from his mind and dissipates in the airwaves. Senses piqued, toes tapping, new walls broken; another new moment burns bright and goes out, the trail of smoke a signal flare to a distant self, a memory of this passing second, this pin-prick in time. Another vast inhalation, a long, slow exhale. He bows, if only to himself, and the curtains, as in all moments, close.
Faceless voids he passes swiftly, round wrist-watched men, trailing lonely sons. His watch...his watch stopped ticking. He wears it for reasons unknown, he thinks of it as his piece of lost time. Picking up speed, climbing sidewalk latters, the pace kept by rhythms in his mind. Passing shoulder steamboats bumbing and shoving, disturbing the pace of his rhythm, his footstep melody. These men passing, men who see directions that apparently he does not. Men who specialize in the acquisition of wealth, the profit of deceit, the collection of identical shirt collars. Men whose shoulders confuse him with their broadness, whose minds confuse him with their narrow broken compass. Directions lost to him, and for this reason, they bump, they shove, they see fortune in the nighttime.
Swing, flap, ding; a smoke shop door plays backup in his somber midnight tune. Tempted in a new burning and by recommendation of Raul the shop keep, he purchases his first cigar. At $2.50, he guesses that this purchase will yield minimal respect from Raul, but the will to burst forth into a new, albeit, thin wall of experience proves too irresistible. For this occasion, a degree of ceremony is in order. Ceremony which desires of him a unique surrounding. In a city such as this, unique becomes drowned in it's own presence. A bench will do.
To bite down on one end, as he's witnessed in films, is a choice and a sudden one. Instant impact, the wall beginning to break. He's bitten too much. The dry tobacco in his mouth, wet with spit; chewing on withered thoughts, old and forgotten, the memories he's stolen, the memories he's lost. He spits, someone, distant but still, has witnessed his ceremony, someone has stolen a glance at his great solo performance. Overcome by invisible jazz, he ignites the match. The performance continues. Bravo pour le clown! Breaths, breathing, the soul of thought, the essence of memory, the inevitable destruction of material, burning before him, he breaths as if at this moment this breath were his only chance, his last great homage to the lost, to the forgotten, and he is dizzied by the weight of this honor. He exhales.
Though the true Jazz is lost, it sizzles on in his twilight late night dizziness, spirals out from his mind and dissipates in the airwaves. Senses piqued, toes tapping, new walls broken; another new moment burns bright and goes out, the trail of smoke a signal flare to a distant self, a memory of this passing second, this pin-prick in time. Another vast inhalation, a long, slow exhale. He bows, if only to himself, and the curtains, as in all moments, close.
Monday, January 3, 2011
...In the beginning...
It being the first post of this strange new experiment, I've never written a "blog" before, I feel as though it should be kicked off in some kind of fantastic manner. Perhaps a bit of narcissism? For all intensive purposes my name is Très-vis. If there's a problem with pronunciation, no problem, you can say it backwards if you'd like. I currently reside in the fine neighborhood of Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York, New York, East Coast, USA, World, Universe, Armpit. As of the past year I've been experiencing a rare degree of soul-crampage...soul-crampage being the inevitable feeling one gets at my point in life - mid-twenties, directionless, and overwhelmed with a nameless youthful passion. Others I've known to have experienced similar crampage have dealt with it in their own distinctive ways. Some are raging a daily fist-fight with their livers often assisted by the help of a gentleman I call Jack, some pride themselves on passionate political opinions and activism, others join the army, yet others find life-partners, jobs, and any number of traditional means of comfort and relief from that constant, bastardly sense of getting older and leading a meaningless life. While all of these choices are fine with me, none of them seem to apply to myself. Maybe in the end all life has no meaning, but the best we can do is find something to "lube the gears" and "get them cranking" (bad metaphors can be fun) and while we're at it make things a little more fun, a little more tolerable, and maybe even a little better (hopes so high, hopes so wary). So what lubes my gears?, he asked rhetorically. Well, various forms of consumption seem to do the trick, but what are lubed gears if they never crank, I ask? (by cranking I mean getting one's ass moving and all of that other phony positive thinking BS.) Everyone needs something to be proud of, something to work at, and maybe one day they can even say "god dammit dad, I had a career." This "blog" will be an attempt to get things cranking, in my life, in my mind, and possibly, in who ever else finds the time to indulge in my madness, as I have now decided to do, and like any madman mad with madness's mad touch, I would be pleased to lure the rest of the world into a similar madness... So please let this not be a burden, as nothing in life should be. I'll keep you posted.
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