autumn is for apostles

the red bird has flown away
crushing the cattails and dying geraniums:
monarch glass and vinegar. 

times square sketch

men shout on street corners
the weight of gothic tragedy upon their frail frames
an apocalyptic burden
-or maybe a one day deal
at the comedy club just
around the corner

kitchen sketch

linen shifts for the silent roosters and rotting rosaries
a young woman- the maiden- stares and hides behind flax and wool
little child of the eastern sun puts down firetruck red
for purple mountains majesty
quiet…quiet…typetypetype
disjunct hearth around which no abundance of love prospers
dance the waltz of the hollow family
and teach us crowded solitude-
the tower

montauk

i wrote this while walking around the rocky beaches at montauk. of course- you really needn't know that, considering it has no relevance to the poem.



you arrive exhaling timorous fog


and coughing on weeds, unkempt hair


and a little mercury-mad

-
you’re breathing and singing and sifting through every listed question


making philosophy teachers seats creak and backs ache –


i can almost smell the pages


burning as i watch them slither past

two by two



you’ve been gone finding yourself.

but all you found


      was everything else. 

Sputnik Sweetheart by Murakami

So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us - that’s snatched right out of our hands - even if are left completely changed people with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this wat, in silence. We draw ever nearer to our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.

the sum of my parts

simplify simply... said thoreau and i shall do just that
based solely on my surroundings and the materials and sentiments that make them up, this is about how the rest of my life should go.


next year. junior year. oh damn, here comes the big one, right? i continue on my downward spiral- school is shoved to the wayside and i focus solely on what i want to do, what i create and who i want to be. my friends begin getting frustrated with me around winter time, when my depression peaks and i begin binging constantly. i isolate myself further and my grades falter a bit, but not enough to set off my parents.  my work in theatre progresses slowly and my parents get worried about me. i worry about myself. [enter excessive kafka] junior year ends. no dates. no boyfriend. nothing. senior year. whatever, no big deal. nothing again. i audition for a while, hoping to be ok but i only get disappointed. i end up going to vassar or bard or nyu. lonely among the crowds of other equally lonely angel-headed hipsters. 


-enter Cassie Dempsey- 


shes a bright, dreamy young thing. probably wears pastels and dresses and oxfords and has pale skin. shes a hopeful, dewy faced girl from london maybe, or perhaps edinburgh. comes from an extremely wealthy family but secretly despises them. we are kindred spirits. i become obsessed. i change my appearance, demeanor, views for her. she takes a liking to me. we talk about philosophy. we eat exotic foods and shop at farm stands for tulips. we both graduate- her with a degree in philosophy, me with one in english, or maybe musical theatre. we move to new york together.


she immediately is hired by a law firm. that doesnt do it. interns for the new yorker. job at vanity fair. works her way up. im stuck here. nowhere. in our ever-smoky apartment in the village writing uninspired articles for cheap tabloids, pretending im a 'freelance journalist'. meanwhile i audition for shows and face utter rejection. classic new york, right there. dreams that die before they start. 


she dominates the household, becoming colder, harsher. i love it. she refuses to have sex with me and commands my obedience, all the while lecturing me about the crap i'm producing. i bathe in her exquisite cruelty. i do a workshop or two, for musicals going absolutely nowhere. she's junior editor. im nowhere.


she cheats on me with the man she said she despised- stiff, conservative, traditional, double breasted. rubs his cock as we dine together. 


i leave, wander a bit. maybe have a nice little company moment being alive at the piano but i dont remember the chords. maybe i get a show.... a lot of the same fake bitches. discouragement. failure. disappointment. depression (again) (how deeply unexpected, right?)


-pause- *Epiphany!*


and then i remember that im gay and have parents i can steal money from and i find a nice guy in the theatre, maybe he's currently playing the role of jimmy in a millie revival or maybe the emcee in a cabaret revival. 


we get married.
i get back to writing and auditioning for shows.
maybe i get to be berger like i always wanted.


no kids. never liked 'em much, to be quite honest. he works 6 days a week and i do too, whenever i manage to land a job. he plays jamie from last 5 years, then jon from tick tick boom and finally originates the part of steven sondheim in the inevitable musical about him when he dies.


flash forward to us happily co-directing the revival of peter and the starcatcher 




*end scene*

guilded

it's 6 o clock and i'm already uncomfortable in the silence. smog and concrete give way to sprawl. i really hate hearing myself think and no matter how hard i try, crickets will never be car horns or the screams of slowly dying dreams. wine, wicker, white and blue. forget, regret- that's what jonathan larson would've done. just roll down the windows and drown in the fresh, forgiving, foreign tide. shorts and t shirts and flip flops don't leave much to the imagination. [glance up contemplatively] bracelets and anklets. tacky and cheap. they'll do. or maybe beaten up, beachy high tops. 


daughter of dionysus, son of Beats and the beaten: give me safety and solitude and sanity on the sand and a pair of rose colored glasses. a notebook to hide in, a pen for more than marking. give me solace in the sun and sleep. a bath and rest. wash it all away with watercolors, pastels, khaki, and tans. scars are not bruises that wash off with time and salt water .


scrub scrub scrub