Thursday, April 30, 2015

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

C'mon baby and rescue me...

Flatiron

Ghost Building

Greenwich Street - West Village

Texture 5

On repeat: I am not the genepool lifeguard...

Silence is a discipline, but I'm weary from argument.  I'm tired of shouting into the wind.  I can't spend the rest of my life trying to piss up a rope.

I recognize also silence is a privilege not granted to everyone, but I have precious little left.  What is it that Chris Whitley said?

"There's miles of stone, jackhammer in my hand.  There are compromises I can't comprehend.  Soon I'm gonna drop this jack and run.  Return into the wild where I'm from."

I wasn't wired for this modern world.  I simply can't sustain the rage.

Heads up Baltimore, and Ferguson, and Downtown Brooklyn... and more.  My heart is with you, but today I feel all used up.

Monday, April 27, 2015

The Bus

Paul Kirchner via Biblioklept

Keep it fresh...


Between two evils, I always pick the one I haven't tried before." ~ Mae West

I am a patient boy...

I wait I wait I wait I wait...

And then life becomes a series of waiting rooms and pharmacy slips and appointments.  Everyone demands blood and urine and you are surprised when the former is easier to come by.  You check in at an office and there is a column on the sheet that asks, "are you dropping off."

I answer that nothing has dropped off yet and the girl at the counter doesn't even crack a smile. 

Sunday, April 26, 2015

This is for sale.

Only $1659.00!

Psst.  It's Midnight Blue!

No, they're really not, are they?

"i wanted to write a poem that rhymes, but the revolution doesn’t lend itself to be-bopping…so i thought again and it occurred to me maybe i shouldn’t write at all, but clean my gun and check my kerosene supply. perhaps these are not poetic times at all."

~ Nikki Giovanni

Texture 4.1

Texture 4

Texture 3

Texture 2

Texture 1

Saturday, April 25, 2015

This is for sale.

Only $9860

The most unkindest cut of all...


"She said "you are the sort that just drifts in the current. Life just happens to you. Therr is nothing appealing about that. You don't make any thing happen.  You don't contribute anything.  You consume rather than create.  You are along for the ride." It may have hurt less were it not essentially the truth. I did expect pain but not this kind of pain.  I never expected the truth. The truth is a fucking low blow and I had done nothing to deserve the truth from her or anyone."

Now see... Shakespeare knew.  He knew enough that when you Google "unkindest cut" there are multiple responses.  The sentiment has been echoed in dozens of poems and pop songs, most of them mediocre but the point is the same.  As Superman had his Kryptonite, we all have that one weakness... one vulnerability... an Achilles Heel.  It will be those whom we hold closest who will know it.

Boom... sorry.

Decay

This is an iron support column at the 4/5/6 stop by City Hall.  No small amount of irony... no pun intended.

Self-Publishing

WYSIWIG:  who the universe created me to be is who the world gets... because i have stepped aside and stopped manipulating the image.

Friday, April 24, 2015

Responsible?


I've neither the inclination nor the energy to get into the 2nd Amendment debate.  There are some twisted ironies on both sides of the argument though.  That really needs to be said.  For example:

The pro-gun lobby is really big on the 2nd Amendment (naturally) but often not so supportive of the rest of the Bill of Rights.  Let's think about that for a good, long while.  You know it's true.  The right-leaning folks who are most opposed to gun control, are really big on passing legislation curtailing other liberties.  Small government?  Okay... right.  

The anti-gun lobby have some good arguments.  They talk about the Bill of Rights and the Constitution though as a sacred, immutable, document the whole while.  You can't have it both ways.

Read the USCCA (United States Concealed Carry Association) website.  They are the folks whose stamp found it's way onto the USD in my pocket, where I found it this morning while I was getting all my dead presidents lined up in one direction.  Can anyone, even those who live in "dodgy" neighborhoods in big cities, honestly say that the America portrayed in their rhetoric is in any way a reflection of the America they live in?  Is self-defense really that much of a daily concern for the average citizen?  Are the images and fear they conjure all that realistic?

Frankly, it looks like a load of bullshit to me, and makes me lean towards support for the gun control lobby.  Dishonesty discredits... Every single time.  That's the problem with the pro-gun folks.  Their histrionics make them look like assholes.  

I mean, even this dollar bill is suspect.  Imagine yourself working the counter at a retail establishment and someone hands you this, or maybe working in a restaurant and you receive this is a tip.  Does this make you feel safe?  Do you say a quick prayer of thanks and let a warm, fuzzy feeling wash over you, like all of a sudden you feel safe for the first time that day?  Do you suddenly feel that all is right in the world?

Or do you get a chill and say, "Dear God, this goofy motherfucker that I just served six glasses of beer is packing heat.  Please help."  

I suppose it's mixed.  All I know, is that if I lived in the America portrayed on the USCCA site, I would be looking to move somewhere else.  

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I just don't know if I have another presidential election left in me.

More than a year to go and it's already sunk down to this.  That's not to say that this isn't a tad more clever than the horseshit that the right has been slinging around for the last 6+ years.  They don't even bother to make it sound credible anymore.

And why should they?  You refute it with fact, and they just say the liberal media is lying.  It's the Goebbels Effect:  The lie so big that everyone believes it.

Then when and if you get to a point where you either get caught in the act, or caught in a lie, and you source the action or the information back to the other side.  I.E. Glen Beck told his listeners that Barack Obama was responsible for leaving Hurricane Katrina survivors in the lurch.

And so on...

I just don't think I have it in me.  I want to go somewhere.

Le sacre du printemps


Or something like that...

Apologies to Stravinsky, but there you go.  The birds are singing.  The nits are nitting and the gnats are gnatting and it's getting ready to rain again.  April showers bring May flowers.  I'm contemplating shaving so my face will be all fresh and pink and match the cherry blossoms.  I'm contemplating not shaving also, but I'm a couple years beyond a time when it might have looked rugged.  Now the heavy mix of white spines in with the black just presents a dull gray and though it does match the circles beneath my eyes, it's probably not the fashion statement expected of me for face-to-face things later in the day.  Given to grumble while the natural world, or what shows of it through the concrete, is doing its cycle of rebirth dance.  

Maybe there is some kind of rite I can perform, after which this gray-brown husk will be shed and I'll shoot up fresh and green through the thawed Earth and be reborn in the sun.  I remember planting bulbs one winter and having these dry, misshapen things in my hand and wondering how it was possible that they could perform that little miracle year after year as soon as the sun got high enough.  Yet they did it every year.  One day I would look out and see bright green spikes coming up through the dead leaves, and a day later the ground out back would be ablaze in color.  Those dead bones I stuck in the dirt, which lay frosted under all winter, had come to life and made me question everything I believed, or rather didn't believe, about how the Universe worked and who ran the show.

A divine intervention would be really cool, but I would settle for a chemical reaction or something lying dormant in my DNA or my bone structure.  I won't be choosy.  I simply want to wake up feeling okay. I don't want to have to fake it.  I'll take one solitary blossom.  I'll take one spring morning.  It's not much to ask, is it?  Or maybe there is a time of penance for all the squandered Aprils and Mays.  Is it too much to ask to wake up every now and again without a pervading sense of having misplaced something?  Or do I look in the mirror and dismiss it all and say, "Go on with your bad self, MacGregor and go on with your luxury problems."  

But there it is.  It's time to suit up and show up for the world.  It makes little difference whether or not you feel you have any personal investment in it.  It's just waiting out there, just as certainly as the bees are waiting to pollenate the spring flowers, or the squirrels are waiting to savage any fruit that's born.  

Suit up and show up.  

Shut up and show up.  

Listening to Stravinsky now and the dog is staring as she stares when she knows I'm getting ready to leave without her.  Getting ready to scrape the face, like raking dead leaves out of the flower bed, and turning a fresh face upwards towards the spring rain.  

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Who's gonna take away his license to kill?


Man has invented his doom.
First step was touching the moon...

It's funny, really, but not haha funny.  When I was a kid people talked about overkill and nuclear holocaust and it all seemed so real.  I guess the threat was real.  Or maybe not.  Who knows?

Then the powers-that-be got together and shot the shit and signed some papers and these days the duck-and-cover drills seem like a bad dream.  Sure, they still talk about some rogue nation or terrorist group getting ahold of some mythological beast (or not?) called a suitcase nuke, but for the most part we don't talk so much about baking the whole planet in a single afternoon.

So it's kind of funny that we more or less nullified the quick option and it looks pretty much like we've decided to take the slow road and fuck it all up a little at a time.  You know what I'm talking about too, unless you live under a rock.

New Miley Cyrus Photoshoot Features Full Frontal Nudity


Okay, this is a cheap shot.

Sorry.

Sort of.

The title of this post was the first headline I read when I came home tonight.  The photo above fairly well illustrates what came to mind at about the same time as these words escaped by lips:

Who cares?

Don't take that the wrong way.  Were her breasts any larger it would be pretty much the same reaction.

Who really cares?

It's not like breasts are a rarity in most corners of this world.  I'd venture to say I'd rather see fewer of them on the internet.

I'll end my rant here.  I'm feeling cynical and punchy.

And I don't care.

An Edvard Munch kind of day...


You think Munch and you think The Scream but it's not like that.  It's not the bilious, blood-streaked horror though the day may have started that way.  It's hard to recall.  All the elements were there, the dread and horror etc.  The emotions were there, or rather the aftermath of the emotions.  The frightful awakening to the very truth of it all having happened so long ago -- and surely this is a common thread or so many people would identify so quickly and with such clarity to The Scream -- what comes after is the reality of what inspired the agony.

The relentless monotony.

It's the dead eyes or in some cases no eyes at all.  It's the stiff limbed resignation:  you will trudge home and perhaps sleep but surely get up and do it again, and again, and again.  You will bruise your heels on the sharp heads of cobblestones.

Etc.

And again Munch with the color.  Not sickly and headachy like The Scream but dreary and then again fertile at the same time.  There is profound depth and weight to the color... the garments.  You almost feel Munch more than see Munch.  Their limbs become your limbs.  Their exhaustion becomes yours.  You know that grim resignation.  It's in the color.  The color has gravity.

I'm certain I'm plagiarizing myself here also but that's almost the point of this.  You will live long enough to plagiarize yourself and repeat yourself and become tedious.  But yes, there was that first time I encountered Edvard Munch during that long summer in the early 80s, sitting high atop pallets of remaindered texts and throwaways, reading art books.  It was, of course, The Scream.  Maybe it was the weed I'd smoked before settling into the lunch hour but I'm guessing it wasn't because so many other people experienced the painting in the same way -- it came in like an ice pick though.  It was an awakening.  There it was in front of me.  Someone had gone inside my head and pulled out my waking nightmare and committed it to canvas.  Even still I was certain that I was the only person in the entire world who was experiencing this painting the same way because how could so many people know what was in my head?  Certainly this was just for me.  Some painter had created this knowing that at some point in time, someone would "get him."

But of course I'm not so special after all because that's the entire point.  Everyone gets this, despite that nobody really wants to.

So what was the subject of The Scream looking at?

I believe it was this next bleak canvas, populated with hollow men with hollow eye sockets and tired legs and precious little to look forward to but a calendar populated with the same damn thing.

And that was today.

And probably tomorrow.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Friday, April 17, 2015

Department of Creepy

This is hanging above the urinal in the public mens room at work.  Don't ask me.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Self-Explanatory



What a long strange trip it's been to #2000...