Anatomy of Creation

This is an unorganized ramble of my day's most significant happening.

After being ejected from the eight hour jigsaw puzzle called work, from which I can't quite find the place for myself, I decided to walk my remaining Strength over to the South Street Seaport and finally visit the Bodies Exhibit.

Nature:

You crazy architect, you genial engineer, you write the music and the lyrics at the same time, nothing overlooked, everything in its right place, slowly improving on the design depending the set background to the script. Dearest Matrix what are you influenced by? What is Nature the nature of?

Micro/Macro.

I'm obsessed with not being satisfied, I can never accept things as they are; I try to find strings, links, networks at times unapparent, a body and an eco-system, a circulatory system and a city's financial infrastructure, tumors and mushrooms...sometimes they connect, sometimes they branch off to a dead end, never reaching the other side.

There's nothing like seeing your internal organs floating with the dissected body like a knights armor removed, to see exactly why you are as your are, it wasn't a mistake, it wasn't done because it looks cool--No. We were designed by practical hands, the way every piece on an iPod is where it needs to be for convenience and function.

The arteries and nerves, their stretching branches over a skull like vines swallowing an abandoned house, giving me the impression of growth, an evolutionary reach that responds to the need of new uses for newly relevant muscles, the way a musician would near the proximity between himself and the instruments he's intending to use, so does the brain need exclusive access to its guitars, keyboards, drums, etc. the organs of its Body Song (Jonny's soundtrack was by the way, what I had on my iPod during the exhibit, because I'm a dork like that).

I wish I could see a single cell become a human, in hyperspeed and certain moments in super slow motion, to watch the exact moment an internal vertebrae is introduced, connecting to a brain, and then nerves extending like a plague throughout highways of veins and arteries, none conflicting, to watch skin cover it all up, and then forgetting about the sub-surface as the exterior can be so beautiful as well, only matched by the care with which this planet ruled it necessary for our insides to be organized in exchange for our continual existence.

God Won't Show, He Sent a Poet Instead!

So I buy a Bible...you know a friend of mine has an idea, some sort of photo shoot, involving me and a Bible--I don't ask questions. I buy the Bible on my lunch break, I took a really long time deciding between cover colors, a black pleather or a mahogany pleather; "what would god choose?" I think to myself and go with the black. Now I feel a bit strange as I purchase this $6.99 Bible, King James' Version. As I walk out of Shakespeare and Co. onto Broadway, this was just the preview, this was when the Bible still had the plastic wrap, the condom if you will. We all know God with a condom is no God. After work I strip the cover from out its protection and take down Lafayette with one hand in my pocket and the other swinging the Bible. Something strange occurred after a few moments.

Before I get into it, I should now mention that I looked like a mormon, in dark gray viscose pants with a striped collared tucked in and covered by a light, almost heather gray v-neck. Its breezy enough that I can get away with my gray skully, not because of its color but because others tend to take too personal another person's apparel.

Anyway, as I'm crossing Astor, northern bound to 14 St, I suddenly become reached, held, proposed by this overwhelming sensation. Its almost as if the Bible beside me with the words, "Holy Bible" thick and gold on the pleather cover, were a weapon not a book. A pistol, some sort of side arm, phallic and making up for some need within me to extend my manhood through the power of a weapon. I feel as if I could control, fear, excite people, shape their minds with whatever I feel they should interpret as relevant. For whatever reason, as I walked up Lafayette, I felt a legacy of murder, conquest, violence, and prejudice surge through my palm and like a bribe, slipping in, I savored the imagined taste of taking apart a human brain and reconstructing the pieces as I saw fit. This was strange, perhaps even uncomfortable but not frightening. Not frightening in the slightest bit.

The Joke on Prince Street

Chronicles of a Fuck-up

I Think an Unwritten Smiths' Song Just Happened to Me

So I'm walking down Prince Street on my lunch break and this girl who's too attractive to smile at me, smiles at me. I smile back very surprised. But then again, she smiled with her mouth open and a nod, so really...an attractive girl on Prince Street laughed at me. I have no idea why. She had some funny looking dog and shades. She walked normal so I couldn't see anything that she or her dog may be doing that she'd laugh at when being noticed by another person in the act. Maybe I gave her dog a funny look, I won't rule that out. I did take a small hop-step from the sidewalk to the street, which I didn't think resembled a misstep or trip. Maybe she was laughing at that. Maybe she was just a crazy person. Typical. Maybe I knew her and just didn't recognize her and she was delivering one of those, funny-running-into-you-here-of all-places sort of laugh greets. Or maybe its the most obvious, me walking down Prince Street on my lunch break is very quite a laughing matter. Comedy.

People Thought Honey was Made by Magic!

What's better than honey? A honeybee. Has anyone, any artist, inventor, or craftsman created anything as good as honey, ever? No.

I want a honeybee the size of a bull dog as a pet. I'll name him Aldous, or her Pollie. We'll get into wild mystery solving adventures, (think Scooby-Doo but with a non-talking giant, buzzing honey bee). I'll feed him/her honey nut cheerios, golden grams, honey buns and we'll hang out watching TCM with good old Robert Osborne introducing each feature. "Hahahaha," my honey bee and I will whip our heads back laughing at yet another classic, witty comment from Bob. Robert Osborne will of course eventually join our mystery gang.

In the evening I'll walk Aldous/Pollie and he/she will buzz frantically when someone plays Feist's song Honey Honey.

It Looks Bleak

I really hate to sound like that dude everyone avoids because as Aesop says, he has "prophetic opinions but can't remember where his drink is." But a phone named Nexus One scares the hell out of me! Its just too cocky to name a phone Nexus One, as it is to name a phone Android. The next step would be to use the phone as the brain of an actual humanoid...And when the Nexus Six arrives there will be no Rick Deckards, and it will be far beyond the point where it was already too late.

"If only you could see what I've seen with your eyes."

A good friend once told me I have a love/hate relationship with technology where something like a new phone creeps me the hell out but the same innovation applied to an electric musical instrument bedazzles me into supernova sprinkles. This is true! Its my hypocritical cross to bear. Maybe I should ease up and not worry but I don't want to go out of fashion, I don't want humans be a thing of the past. Combine the Nexus One and Singularity, how much space is left for the flesh?!

Readiness is All

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'll hold you close. Its just you and I now, there is no world, we are enough for the universe; fully finding what it searched during its expansion and contraction. At the heart, body and brain of that point, I'll hold you. How tight? How long? Could we even notice or determine force, time, space when we become so close to each? Essentially entwined, defined into its seams, separation would be like removing hydrogen from an ocean and expecting water to remain.

Frame me with you

border me mine, woman most woman of all

look me there, eye me mine

if all we are then nothing is the goal

an erase, an elimination of one another

canceled and matched, nothing rising from us

the universe, a sheet that wraps only us within

frame me with you

pre-sent us ours, definition

completion, a known thing

No background, no mind, and thought has yet to catch up to action, as we stand there in the void fulfilled. You'll cast the one glance that can prove to me that I indeed have sight, I'll say the one word that finally proves you aren't deaf; and then, when I look at you and you speak to me, its two suns embracing into a black hole romance. Massive, central, and overwhelmingly insatiable. Queen of the half world, empress of the maiden council, and mother to the would-be elements that remember how well you fit in my arms.

I know I said I wouldn't write anymore, that this must end. Yet, I satisfy not, with a dim fading, a quiet exit with subtle shifts of tone and depth; shifts that disappear directly before the viewer, years before he even begins to notice. We have to explode, we have to crash in a frenzy and then release an energy stored within the tension and hostility we use as magnetic fields. I'll peel back the layers and it will be with Truth that you'll discern me, and I you. If only for a moment that I could fully have you in exchange for myself, in your possession, everything in its right place and nothing else having any matter whatsoever.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

First Scene Dissolve

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'm so tired. My legs barely stand me and there is a hunger inside that echoes tumultuously, with tempest of most concrete vigor do I move about. Hatred is my propeller; my engine, a glowing heart erupting with magma and fumes of shame. The few times I saw you today (I try to see less and less), it was as if, my hatred were offered a compromise. As if noted by my palely apparent countenance, one of deprived honor and starved dignity, a pathetic hand was extended forward with a cupcake.

My sweet tooth and all its fallen graces!

Its an insult! One perfectly visible and recognized, yet how I long to reach for you; such a waist to not have.

I took a break and on a street, under a canopy, I stood. The rain was cold but the air warmer. I had space and my lungs went to work on the early night's dew. You walked out with a colleague, speaking. I wanted some water, it was raining all around me; I was the thirsty, drowning man. It took every bit of each lung to punch my chest forward; every wattage of street lights, to keep my eyes from parking on you.

You are all they have to offer me, and it is true that you are indeed a great offer; but I can't--it wears me out. My fake plastic love, do you understand? It wears me out. I need this hatred and these lungs to roar, snatch, claw, and tear at the winds that so eagerly wish to pass me by. I need my tension, my open eyes that sleep and cry very little but do only absorb, greedily, everything in its path.

Its with love that I must leave you, its with further hate that the action springs awake into motion.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Let Me Know What You're Like

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Look there, among scatters of voices and roused audience, that by their volume and pace orbit like violent debris; a gauntlet for the cosmonaut's atmospheric departure, among this spinning tetris my queen in black speaks.

Like a death, you announce with vivid detail, words from which I am absent. I make from one end to another; beats of hearts like bullets firing through a spark, an angry, tiny spark that shoots a long way. Your body, like a continent, I the foreigner. From borders I climb and hide in the tresses of your most abandoned attentions, where no thought inhabits such barren lands. Like a thief I make for these edges and consult my stubborn friend, Humility, its with the softest caresses that she convinces me to stay while opening my back with her blade.

What do I wait for? Is it Opportunity and its grifter tricks that send parlors a-roar? Is it Amnesia, that darling little fairy of repair, who patches the wound in a band-aid, too much matching the complexion that one forgets to remove it, mistaking it later for skin.

She's a Deftones song, something like Moana, something especially like Moana. A last song, an empire desired invitation to. She so carves my heart, and the stage with all its actors and rustled anxieties, glows like trembling jellyfish in fields of gossamer bedding. The sparks of nerves, the same bullets but now firing information, sensational execution!

And Moana as she exits this stage in her creme colored winter coat, an indigo scarf noosed about her pretty neck, on an escalator my eyes say goodbye to the back of her head. Yet another day that has introduced me as, "coward".

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Must've Look Like I Was Dancing with the Wall

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

When I saw you today, in your bright red peak coat, black skirt and black leggings I had to stop reading. I wouldn't be able to continue reading if I heard you speak and I couldn't stand reading if you stood near without saying a word. And you did speak, of course not to me but all the same, for me. When you left the room, I put my book away and I had no more use for being in a room without you.

Later on, when you're on my floor, I make my way up. I time it precisely so that while I'm on my way to my room you're on your way down. As we pass, you smile at me, possibly only because I'm staring. Its a quick, automatic smile; the kind you give to a sudden, familiar stranger when you catch their eye for a moment, unexpectedly. A smile already prepped at the border of the lips, rigged to go off for any mailman, doorman, police officer, and any other insignificant variable that deems harmless enough to spare a twitched curve of kindness.

I didn't see you for the rest of the night. Purposely I remained away. I thought to myself, how fulfilling a smile a can be, regardless of its motivation. Finally when I was ready to see you again, you were already gone. And I was like that fisherman who excitedly battles the waters because finally his bait got a hold of a bite, only to reel in a disappointed reality, my hook got caught onto a boot.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Lonely Entanglements

Here is a lyric/poem collage, it contains parts of lyrics by Deftones, Lhasa, and Cage; excerpts from the film, Gilda, and a poem by Pablo Neruda. The two photos are by Grace-Kim's series of pictures entitled, Love Hotel.

I'm Her New Cool Meat

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Got you where I want you

Luminous mind, bright Devil

of absolute clusterings, of the upright noon--:

here we are at last, alone...

Stop I'm drunk

without loneliness,

far from the savage city's delirium.

But hate can be a very exciting emotion. Very exciting. Haven't you ever noticed that?...There is heat in it, that one can feel. Didn't you feel it tonight?...I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Just as a pure line describes a dove's curve,

as the fire honors and nourishes peace,

so you and I made this heavenly outcome.

The mind and love live naked in this house.

Now my jaw and my teeth hurt. I'm choking from gnawing on the ball. And just before I come to move to the back of the car she makes me touch the machine. New murderer.

Lovely Lady Spider loves you best

Begs you to come live in her own nest

Feed you clothes you gives her heart to you

Just as pure...fire...nourishes peace...

Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Its like the sky opened and God handed you directly to me!

Furious dreams, rivers of bitter certainty,

decisions harder than the dreams of a hammer

flowed into the lovers' double cup,

Lonely Spider waiting in her web

Hoping she can catch some happiness

Then who should stumble into here but you

First untie me (Stop! I'm drunk) untie me for now. You said you would, right? And you were right (stop I'm drunk!)

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

until those twins were lifted into balance

on a scale: the mind and love, like two wings.

--So this transparency was built

Feeling like your heart is beating, its only for me!

Stop I'm drunk

There Will Be Love

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Day by day, you are that thought which has been spanning throughout my mind. Yes, darling to me you are like an imperialist, who's power and ambition recognizes not any limits or boundaries. The thought of you in my mind, steals land, kills or cheats landlords, marries memories and all their fortunes; yes dear, the thought of you in my mind is doing quite well for itself.

Today -

I pass you by and pretend to not notice you, betraying my every instinct to stand directly before you and into your eyes, stare until sight or its focus, expires from me. In your department with your girls, your voice heard here then there, how it travels and so faithfully is it, how I follow. Its perfume to the ears, and then when coursed with a visual accompaniment, it becomes flavor to the eyes--an aromatic, gourmet cuisine. As fine as you are yet you starve me, or more so to the point, I starve myself from you. I chase myself away, the perfume I treat as a stench and the flavor, like an acrid taste, which I then dry heave with perfect disgust.

Am I like the beggar who pretends the banquet is nothing more than a culinary compilation of vile slop, simply because he isn't invited to any access of it?

O love of mine-not-yet-mine, if only that you could see through the facade; perhaps I reveal as much, when distanced from my countenance. Know that my disgust is the darkness from which I invite light to evolve. I want to hate you, despise and detest you so that I may savor every subtle dissolution that transforms, slowly, that enmity into love. Experiencing every atom of love that gradually collects until a planet results, and hatred becomes an atmosphere that shields that love and all of Life within it.

To you, all this love and further, all its future.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Fear, Shame, Embarrassment, and How They Cut

I once knew this girl who stole a blade from me. It wasn't exactly stolen, more like it was taken away without a presented incentive for me to attempt a rescue. She was older than I, taller and stronger, probably not smarter but that didn't help me much.

It was a summer in the late 80s or early 90s and I was in the Dominican Republic. Los Alcarrizos, thats where my aunt-godmother lives; thats where I ran across a field behind the houses with the other kids and embarrassingly stepped into a pool of mud, just as the kids imagined a New Yorker would. It was right where my brother and I competed for smiles from Josie; where my cousin Yuri constantly tried to kiss me, but failed. So many of my visits to the Dominican Republic are forever committed to Los Alcarrizos, low concrete layers of houses, dirt roads and steep hills, random fields, avocado trees, and the smell of wet tangerines after a fresh rain. It was also here, in Los Alcarrizos, that after one of those fresh summer rains, a shaving blade that I had been entertaining since the morning was removed and taken hostage.

I don't remember her name but she was the neighbor's daughter. She was the older sister of this annoying kid, who was around my age, who I had just pushed off my aunt's property, off a platform, down to his front dirt (there was no lawn). I pushed her brother a few days prior to her stealing my blade. I only pushed her brother because he kept asking for it, literally.

"If you're such a bad ass from New York then prove it...Push me off this ledge. Go 'head, push me."

Translated from spanish of course. After a long, monotone looping of his request, I became bored or irritated and I complied with his order, he thanked me by crying and maybe hurting his arm. When he called his mother I made a break for it. Not that anyone would believe his story, even if it were true; I was considered an angel.

His older sister, however, she saw right through me. She was about thirteen or fourteen and politely asked to see my blade as I stood outside my aunt-godmother's house. She let me have it in the open, very straightforward did she smile and tell me what she thought of me, that she knew I pushed her little brother. I was barely paying attention, I just wanted my blade back and made a face to reply to the smell that followed her like a disciple. After she wrapped up her veritable accusations, I asked for the return of my blade. She must have misunderstood, because instead of placing the blade back on my palm which I held extended, she did something quite contrary. One would wonder if my spanish was indeed that awful, that cock-eyed as to have someone confuse, "give me back my blade," for "shove my blade down your pants."

I stood before this older, taller, stronger girl and pouted my entire face with annoyance. "Is she serious?" I must've said with my eyes. All the while that disciple of hers warmed like an aura around her, like an atmosphere. I almost had to hold my breath but my anger usually demands air through flared nostrils. I asked her once again to return my blade, release the hostage, let's walk away from this peacefully. She replied with an invitation, said that if I wanted the blade so bad I'd have to reach in and pull it back out.

Now, don't get me wrong, she was dirty. She looked like a dark, wet alley cat. Nothing like Josie or her older sister, who wore long skirts and smiled like a piece of something sweet. There was nothing sweet about this kidnapper, this terrorist pervert and that sour smell which perfumed her like a bad frame. Nothing sweet about her smile or her husky voice, yet when it came down to whether or not I would reach into her crotch for my blade, none of this made an impression on my decision. I blushed at the idea and in the end, I didn't get my blade back but not due to disgust, rather because of fear.

Soon after, I left with my family to another town to visit some other relatives, my cousin, Yuri probably came with us. I never saw that girl again, neither on that trip or any future return. She ran off with something I was scared to do, something sharp and intimately fresh. As a result, there is a possession of mine wandering along the past, snuggled soundly in the crotch of a teenage alley cat; and when I see an older dominican woman, who is questionable in character, I think only of my blade and its rightful, manual owner.

Dear October, iHate the Robots

Ladies and Gentlemen, set your mood organs to "congratulatory enthusiasm" and "spring glee". Then you can successfully deny that the future is going to be a scary place. To make matters worst, if I may quote a friend, "if the future isn't now, I don't know when it'll be!"

FAKE WOMEN

ELECTRIC SHEEP

Incase anyone is curious where I stand on this: This is not good!

IRREPLACEABLE:

Love Letters to Tomorrow: iHeart

Dear Tomorrow,

Love is that inevitable downfall; that swift, uncontrolled sweep that makes useless your best judgements and restraints. I don't want much to do with it. Though, one does become lonely, one does garner necessities for intimate companionship and relative affinities to be shared with a counterpoint to one's self. At times a feeling is felt, a sad feeling that implies a failing to develop new love, from both within others towards yourself and worse still, from within yourself towards others. At this point you desire very much to be proven wrong.

I write to you because you, perhaps only you, know well enough where love may come, who it will knock for and who it will leave with or without. These things are ever yours and kept there from us until you're done with them and we, done with the past. So it is then, that I write to you and ask, request that there be a love like the kind I've felt and that when it does knock, beckoning for whom it beckons, that that cherished noun does but yield and embrace love and fall away, carried away by tidal waves of love. I hope that this abandonment never fashions itself obsolete or archaic, like a gadget in between accelerating technologies, something deserving only the retrospective sympathies of nostalgia. Much like a music mini-disc or a human.

Yours, so long as true is true,

-The Man Who Believed His

Was the Last Love Loved.

Pop Quiz Hot Shot

what's orange and blue and randomly discovered by google sailors when they image search 'dominican women'?

Don't Drink The Water?

After a long, thirsty day I decided to perhaps free a Jackson from the nearest ATM. I was bone dry and though I was still considering l'eau du sink, I was of a certain feeling (the kind that favors water of a lesser gray persuasion). The matter would soon resolve itself for me via a lady stranger. Madame of the Lake, in a white spring dress and short, straw-blonde hair; she no sooner took the problem and sorted its pieces than I took her pieces into account without realizing what she had just done for me. That is, my savior, my clairvoyant angel, so informed of my sinful, desert tongue that held its own Ark and was much overdue for a Deluge, had left for me a resolution as clear as a plastic cup filled with ice.

Parked on top the very traffic drum I removed from the middle of the sidewalk; as if knowing of her offering, I had to set up the altar for her tithe, she left me ice in a plastic cup. From no doubt, farther a distance she had purchased a drink and in the happening of a walk and the repeated expansion of two lungs that pulled out of an orange straw, the beverage, she made her way to me. My distress sung to her ears, in melodies that warmed her to heed my call. It was the reverse relationship between sailor and siren, where the three avian women sail out to the voice of the shipwrecked Odysseus. And there it was to be, a drink for a thirsty soul.

In the sprite-ful spirit that defined the image as negligible when obedience to thirst is to be primarily considered, I knew I would pick up that cup and thank my mermaid. Cherished, Mother of Lancelot, I'd dare not refuse. I saw her from my shop window. And the ice, like diamonds in a crystal glass, hailed lustrous invitations to me. The shop was already closed so my river nymph was all but too timely. As I pulled down the gate and locked up, I noticed I am already the owner of my anonymous inheritance. I notice that no one considers the gift that could easily be as much theirs as it is my possession. However, they did not receive the affair as I had. To any other passer-by on E9th Street, that plastic cup could've been placed on that traffic drum by as much a disagreeable source as their imagination may allow. My thirst and I are of a more intimate understanding, therefore we drink.

My Jessica Christ drank something involving watermelon. That or I fancy her lips are watermelon flavored and from the straw (which I removed with the lid) the ice somehow absorbed this attractive memento. In any case, my thirst and I were closer to satisfied. My Lady Niagara had left me quenched.

If I have not mentioned that this straw-haired, aqua-philanthropist was in fact very attractive, it is only because I wanted to pay appropriate tribute to her deed before acquiring for you, impressionable, physical details. Before continuing I will now also mention my sensitivities which run quite confluent to that of the other passer-bys of E9 Street; who are without my shop window and what we, behind it, were prospectively televised. I would, like any of those passer-bys, have ignored Lilandra's Crystals had I missed the prelude. If a plastic cup filled with ice had appeared sans my knowing who placed it there, I would have taken a very parched, uptown commute. But being that she was pretty enough and I complimentarily, shallow enough, I drank.

Jessica Christ will be physically gauged by my easiness and readiness to drink from her. Wine made water and flesh made cubic congelation of that same wine. You will find me quite narrow when women are concerned. It is not any Godiva that will make a Tom of me. To say I am picky is to say champagne is liquid, it is only the initial generalization from which to begin. But perhaps it may have been influenced by the thirst as well as the excitement I usually feel at the end of a work shift that bids me a euphemistic view. I, no doubt was ecstatic of my work day's end and water was on my mind, as well as beautifying anyone who delivered any of the two. Still, I am of the opinion I got good enough a glance to know gorgeous from gorgon. And from that opinion I will attest, she was pretty enough. In fact, our heroine, the blonde Aspen Matthews was attractive enough that had she walked up to me, as a stranger and kissed me, made out with me, I'd do no more than offer very little protest. I'd accept her lips and our salivating tongues sliding off one another like two orcas in love. I'd be a hypocrite to then refuse Holy Water from this Temple on which I'd gladly prey.

Had she'd been a man, a less appealing woman, or a child, I'd have no problem with making due with my dry throat 'til a South Bronx apartment door was opened and a walk to a refrigerator provided me that overdue deluge. The horror of a child, I shutter. Children are the worse of all possibilities since they care the least, germs and hygiene are at best distractions to them, easily ignored. You'd have a harder time becoming ill washing your face with a handful of phlegm than drinking from the same plastic cup as a child. Circumstance being as welcoming as it was, I was deemed fortunate and presently, grateful.

Thus my anonymous donator is thanked most amicably. In a white spring dress and straw-blonde hair she continued on, as the evening was as young as it was blooming with distressed sailors. Will you read this, from wherever you may happen to be, if ever your reading eyes do stray across this entry, know this my darling, that I drank down to the last cube. I am yours, ever quenched.