Nightmare Alley - desperate young lovers on the lam, a wounded veteran who has forgotten his name, an array of theoretical perspectives, ostensible acts of violence.
Nocturne - kids with dreams, a little fractured, a man’s wife with nothing but larceny in her heart, half-hearted romance where “I” passes insensibly into “we,” “my” becomes “our,” and individual fate escapes commitment.
Desire for - mirror images, forlorn gazes dream girls with flash hawk faces the very sight gives new hope.
Poverty Row, where everybody has an angle, social murder is legitimized by war; breakdown of suppressed agitation, codified amusement, and non-identity.
Modernist Mortal Music - all heavy swing rhythm and a loping low-key theme, pondering a watershed of dissonance; The Zeitgeist Theory - downbeat and overrated.
Cutting Edge that unifies the technology of making a fast buck, with: psychopathic all-consuming conflagration, retrograde ideas, equally ominous mercenary humiliations.
6:15 PM Union Square a black-hooded guy, exuding youthful sincerity, approached a kinda pretty girl sitting next to me; aquiline nose, runway thin, wearing black leather boots with gold studs in circular patterns.
with sweet-faced I'm-not-a-con man subtext, he talked of being an artist interested in drawing people's faces;
may I draw your pretty face?
yes, of course, she said.
with a black marker he began to work, never taking his eyes off her, asking her personal questions of small consequence, the attention being all.
where are you from? any brothers and sisters? where do you work?
while sketching her eyes, hair, lips, nose.
outline finished he sat down on the bench and filled in details, first with a yellow highlighter, then a red marker.
the questions continued, bourbon smooth. she seemed intoxicated.
the drawing wasn't very good, didn’t matter, his moves were.
on the back of the portrait he wrote: Kara & Mookie 4/21/14 Which he outlined with a red heart.
she took the drawing, thanked him, folded it, put in her pocketbook, then got up.
without any negotiation, she left with him, not arm-in-arm, but nudging him with her shoulder.
the smoothest pickup I've ever witnessed.
it seemed too easy,
and I couldn't help but think that within the next hour someone's heart was going to get broken.
It’s not all chandeliers and shadows. no matter how fine the crystalline filigree of light marks the darkness in shifting monochrome geometries, tempered by bandwidth and perception;
A bellowing woolly rhino crashes into a Pleistocene clearing. I can't shake these beasts from my bones.
Stuck in the illusion that we are changing, or have changed, or will change, or even want to change our lives, take a good look at yourself, and describe what you see.
Energy and magnificence make an argument viscerally in a triumph over vulgarity and speed. Accomplice of a nameless obscenity, a metaphor for nonconformity that affirms dark, creative energies that orthodox political-religious-scientific thought would repress.
Diabolical energies flow with the most swiftness and potency.
But in America there is no recent poem everyone in a bar would recognize;
so turn up some unsuspected star chart that leads you off in search of evermore distant constellations.
empty movie theatre. alone I walk through the darkened lobby without a ticket, and pass the concession stand, unattended, with the comforting chemical aroma of popcorn.
I take my seat, always the same seat, although the theatre is consistently empty.
then I wait.
sometimes I'm excited, sometimes I'm bored, sometimes I'm agitated, sometimes I fall asleep.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 