A Collection of Spectacles


It seems as though I am constantly awaiting a ship whose arrival is long past overdue. Occasionally, I am teased by the sight of something that is always too far off in the distance, something that is never quite recognizable, but that’s about all. 

This I will profess until all the air has been expelled from these lungs, emptied out willingly, slowly, and I am left choking on everything I have been too timid to hope for: Love is the most gratifying meal that I have never savored. 

Frequently, (and I admit quite often ringing a tone that is almost as constant almost as unbroken as the silent hum tulips make as they return to the surface of this green landscape) my sleep is interrupted by glistening wet dreams of 13th street.

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I had the best birthday ever.

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Plans, plans, plans: I might move out during the summer and go split up my time between my Grandma and aunt in Brooklyn. My parents recently “gave up,” said I can come and go as I please, pretty much. It doesn’t matter really though. I still want to get out asap. Yeah, so I might hang home for a while after graduation and then head out. Try and secure a job in the city for when I’m in college. I’ll come back to NJ for a week at a time here and there and spend it with my friends at their houses.  

I’m putting my deposit down after next week. I’m more set on this than anything else at the moment. Then, there’s housing (13th Street, Stuyvesant Park, William Street are the choices). They took out the Union Square dorms which would’ve been fucking awesome but whatever. 

A combined BA/BFA program with Parsons? Maybe? If I want to take the risk and put all my energy into liberal arts. 

I need to stop thinking.

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The Classified Ad: Looking for an overly imaginative, emotionally intuitive individual who is willing to transform their body into a wonderful vessel that will carry the load of my unusual (and at times overbearing) brand of devotion. Who’s willing to be pumped (wall to wall) with a loving enema of my affection.

I’m trying sarcasm, but I don’t seem to wear it very well.

Again, with seriousness.

Someone who was born inside out. With internal organs that preform their jobs like external appendages. With a heart like sensitive skin. 

Which means that when the cold bitter wind comes it stings, inflicting unbearable pain, immediate indescribable shocks. Contrarily, when the sun’s glorious rays extend out, barely touching, its comforting warmth is felt in canorous notes. A body that is able to feel day to day occurrences like they are emotional avalanches. One that possesses the ability to feel a hidden intensity that most are not privy to. Someone who has always felt unusually in tuned with the world, as if once born a firmly planted tree, insensitively seized, that still holds on to bits of the ground it was once so closely intertwined with. 

In other news: Oh, look. The New School’s in the news. Not for good stuff either.

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Dad was an actor once. He introduced me to his friends from those days a few years back. When “Doc,” as he is called, speaks to you, he doesn’t address you by your real name. Everyone is either “Johnny” or “Artie.” The man was uncomfortably honest about his life. I whispered when I spoke to him so that my parents wouldn’t hear, and I shared my likes under my breath. “I like De Sade and I like Nine Inch Nails and I know about Bob Flanagan,” even though I was thirteen and probably shouldn’t have. He worked in the Adult Film Industry. He told me. I was thirteen. At the time, my favorite movie was Secretary, a Maggie Gyllenhaal film where a girl develops a dysfunctional masochistic relationship with her boss, played by James Spader. Maybe, I was too curious for my own good and too knowledgeable about perverse subjects, and that’s why I allowed people to tell me such inappropriate things. Doc was only serious when he felt the need to remind me of his precautionary warning, “Don’t end up like me, kid.” Because I begged him to, he sent me a huge hundred page packet of writing. I was thirteen and wrote like an angst-ridden fifteen year-old. ABAB rhyme schemes and passes at death littered my pieces. I read the packet in one day while sprawled out on my carpet. After that, I felt inadequate. I realized how sophomoric everything I had was in comparison. So, I let years roll by and pass, until I felt I could send him something worthy of reading that wouldn’t waste his time. We keep in touch occasionally, sending writing back and forth. He’s never said he likes or dislikes my pieces, only, “I’m very gullible, I believe everything and take every word literally!” That, “Even abstract creative prose and poetry can serve as a journal, in your own personal code.” The most unique critique I’ve received. 

His Poem (for some reason this one’s my favorite):

“suture the dividends to the surface of organic nylon

to further impose the wrath of

annointed appointed deities

included in no-holds sparred de-ontological combat orgies

prescribed by the medicine man’s war drum

of prefabricated excuses

of predetrimined failure to consieve and incept

the extinct forgotten race of long-lost die-hards

who sacrifice all life so that 


may breathe underwater”

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In suburbia, as a preventative measure against getting my shoes dirty, I walk in the street and look ahead in order to avoid oncoming cars. He walks on the paved blocks and looks behind occasionally with a casual air, to prevent someone from sneaking up from behind. 

“You’re going to love it. No. Really. My son’s been there for four years now and he thinks it’s great.”

The moment I set my bags down, I’m going to weep with sincerity, because I will have the luxury of doing so for the first time. I’m going to unload traces of animosity, unconsumed passions, and leave them behind. 

Thinking about going already.  Anticipating something that’s still a while away. 


I’m already elsewhere. 

I am going where it is loud all the time and the streets are always lit.

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