Images saved from Yudu: Stoning the Devil: Apparition Poem 1180, Stoning the Devil: Apparition Poem 1519, moria poetry Equations, Ode On Exile, Self-Portrait: The Vessel, Song For Maria Gingerich, Sharkforum: Philly Free School Presents, PhillySound: Highwire show, Philadelphia City Paper: Poetry Incarnation '05. Peace.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Monday, June 13, 2016
Monday, June 6, 2016
To Baudelaire: October 1996
Mama’s boy! Compassionate,
ridiculous, dandified cunt!
Right minded, wrongheaded,
unwed slave and parasite!
No poets go to Hell— God
be with you, vulgar and
adorable prick! May your
tarted up, ice-pick nose-pick tales
grow into a grin in the ether!
You immortal artist you—
we remember, who have
been in New Jersey
at midnight,
no girls, nothing to do,
sitting through thunders, hurricanes,
what it is to be bored, “to ennui”—
to sling a black coat over our
shoulders, stroll streets in paroxysms,
then into ecstasy, devilish slumbers,
out again into the ocean— we remember thee.
Revelation from Holmes Hall: October 1996
I escaped a father I hated, broke
from Moses, his Commandments,
shunned synagogue machinery,
slipped past esoteric Torah, hid
in recesses of a flat white satin
wall (Jennifer, her loins), dreamed
our future for the Universe—
I fathered a Bible-less expanse,
yellow leaves fell, rain coated,
I dawdled, fumbled, waited for
lightning or roses, circles drew
me back to implore these roots:
Buddha, Yahweh, Adonai, Christ,
Mohammed, the escaped father
lives, impersonal, diurnal, this
the refuse of his wisdom I partake
of, dreaming no future for myself
past what modes of suffering are
encompassed outside a third-story
window on a night when Jennifer
rounds the Universe off to a third, out—
Architecture and the Weight of Centuries
As to what constitutes the most profound, durable form of
human progress— certainly, most educated people would place emphasis, if asked,
on the higher disciplines: science, philosophy, high art, and architecture. The
kind of work which constitutes the most profound, durable form of progress in
these disciplines has, as a constituent element, what I call the weight of
centuries effect. What I call the weight of centuries effect is self-evident in
the work— an attempt to assimilate into the work, the influence and gravitas of
all that has been accomplished in the respective discipline before, going back
not just decades but centuries. If this is what constitutes human progress, it
needs to be acknowledged that a huge chunk of modern human society is the
avowed enemy of human progress. The modern press corps, for example— who
express their avowed stance as enemies of human progress by running away,
screaming, from any high discipline work with the weight of centuries effect
inhering. The press subsist, essentially, to produce what I call a “wall of
horseshit” effect (conversely), and the wall of frivolous, ephemeral horseshit
is there to lead the populace, often subconsciously, to the realization that
there is not nor ever can be any profound human progress, no weight of
centuries. The darker side of the human race and the human continuum demand
that the entire surface of human life, in fact, be a wall of horseshit, and all
profound progress hidden. As I’ve begun to understand architecture, and the
architectural dimension of human life from Philadelphia , one of the great architectural
masterwork cities of the world, and a city whose high sector affiliations tower
over other American metropolis/suburb areas, I put PFS/Neo-Romanticism and our
achievements resolutely on the architectural side of things.
In fact, architecture is useful in establishing a
demarcative line between weight of centuries material in the high disciplines
and everything else. Being on the side of the demarcative line we are on, it
behooves us to be realistic about what we can expect. PFS has, in-built, some
Hollywood-level sex appeal to offer; the photos attest to it; leading some to
wonder why the media will not cover us. The reason is simple: as the avowed enemies
of human progress, the press note the architectural bias of our work— the
weight of centuries effect— and run screaming in the other direction. If the
press are to erect the wall of horseshit they need to erect for themselves,
with the specific intention of outright denial of weight of centuries/human
progress, everything associated with architecture has to be an anathema, our sex
appeal be damned. Party politics can be like this on the surface, too— not the
weight of centuries, the weight of pure, totalized evanescence. So, these are
the wages of an architectural bias for the Philly Free
School ; weight of
centuries signifies that we will have to be ploughed over in favor of
evanescent trash on the surface by the enemies of human progress. The weight of
centuries demarcative line is very stringent about this. On the other hand, we
have the peace of mind of knowing that no one can accuse us of selling out, or
selling cheap. It also needs to be noted that the wall of horseshit approach to
the surface of human life is not going anywhere; is, in fact, intransigently
built into human history.
One of the reasons that a movement like Neo-Romanticism must
grow incrementally— the opposition will always try to rig things so that it can
never generate any real momentum. Neither the press corps, nor the party
politicians want momentum to develop behind any work with the weight of
centuries insignia inscribed onto it, which is the insignia of genuine human
progress. Momentum, invariably, is for evanescent trash, some of which can
stand as a simulacrum of weight of centuries work, but never the real thing
(and, as is sinister, both the press corps and the party politicians do know
the difference). As per the opposition: are they people, you might ask, or are
they amoebas? One thinks swiftly of Swift, and is grateful for some of his
literary incisions. Who cares? The right buildings, including here on Fayette Street in
Conshohocken, exude their own kind of sentience among the perceptive sectors of
the human race, impose their own standards and ethos and make their own
demands. Architecture, as a secret powerhouse in human society, may have its
emergence in some sectors facilitated by PFS. However much momentum may be
allowed to accumulate, all of it will be directed towards getting a wider
audience to note weight of centuries level work, and not the simulacrum of
same. Keats, Bach, and Rubens rather than Shakespeare, Mozart, and Rembrandt—
the first tier being ranked first, right on the surface. I will not attempt to
conceal that Neo-Romanticism maintains an avenging angel attitude towards the
enemies of human progress, and weight of centuries. Whenever we can afford to
fuck the bad guys over, and push the architectural up, we will do so; let
momentum fall where it may.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996
Art, it would seem, is a nice way of
saying that everything resides in hell—
the pictures are anguish— the negatives,
hiding somewhere, ecstasy.
Pictures mounted on plain grey walls.
Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay,
bug-like, into corners. I am not,
unfortunately, basking in the open glow of
abundant creativity, but am thrashed
by a sense of impotence. How do I
let the images in? The blonde over
there: does she do penance by giving
head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill
from low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony
of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an
artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls.
Art, it would seem, is
a nice way of saying that everyone
resides in hell— the people are anguish—
the angels, hiding somewhere, ecstasy.
Room 510, Atherton Hilton, State College: July 1996
Lightning illuminates the pale sky; rain
on the leaves sounds like waves. Snakes
rattle across the Earth, hold themselves
erect under the onslaught. Your body,
Jennifer— lax against a pillow, aghast
at the finality of clouds. Lampshades
are tan mushrooms— wallets stuffed
with obscure currencies. Some stray
Ruth may (later) come to wound me.
Swim for your life, junk-in-the-veins
Narcissus— Rimbaud is just a button
to push, guided by voices or not. Our
face of passion is one we had before we were born.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Nefertiti (College Avenue, State College, September 1996)
red lips in the blue Chevette— in a past life
I courted you in Egypt ,
we danced, your
neck like Nefertiti’s as furiously we made
love— lived together, also, in Pompeii , & your
volcanic thighs took me sky-high. Now, here
you are again, pale cool flat diamond
eyed, I am ravishing you, we never think
of New Jersey ,
murder, mortuaries, what’s
ugly, fleeting, as the light goes green it
is all in the set-ness of your face forever—
frissons, fireworks in someone’s mind.
Friday, June 3, 2016
Intro: Photography Presentation: Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum: October 6, 2006: Olde City Philadelphia
Imagine a man. He dips a finger into the filthy Schuylkill & comes up Adonis. Or, a Manayunk side
street finds him staring Acteon-like at some omnipotent Diana, teeth gleaming
in the crepuscular atmosphere.
Imagine a man. He is the heart & soul of the soulful,
beer-soaked bar, reveling in quips his wits are too fast for, taking in bitter,
ham-fisted stories of love lost, found & regained. This is a man who can
listen.
Jeremy. Imagine a Jeremy. This man for whom art is like air,
for whom humanity is beyond cruelty & joking, for whom the savor of the
gold-speckled past is equaled only by future nights staring at diaphanously
gowned girls.
Imagine Jeremy with a camera. This is a kind of sex for him,
a kind of yoga, a yoking of the creative imagination to the fact of our flesh,
that may sag, or glisten, or sag and glisten, or, having sagged, suddenly
glisten under the camera’s eye.
Imagine pictures. They are limned with the light of
soul-baring honesty, the rawest form of candor, the privileged position of an
unprivileged spectator—that is, a sensitive spectator sans imposing ego. These
are pictures of people, unmediated by art.
Only it is art. The artifice is all in the angles—how a
smile reveals a desire to be fondled, how a pose means such-and-such knows
everything there is to know about Siouxsie & the Banshees, or the Cure, or
the Fixx.
Get a fix here. A fix of real human beings being real in
real pictures taken by a real man at the height of his “seeing” power; a fix of
sensuality for people with brains, who can unite the signifier, in all its’
nuanced glory, with the signified.
There is no disjuncture here between sign and meaning. These
people speak for themselves, just by being naked, or half-naked, or a bit
naked. It is the dialect of desire that powers streetcars & other vehicles.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Song for Maria Gingerich: State College: 1998
My scarlet letter let you in
We rallied on our separate beds
The way to blue was flushed with ice
Your tongue possesses everything
(lighten my,
watch my,
blow my)
In any case the case is closed
We walk the streets, a trackless train
My verdant prayer is your own skin
I can't believe I'm free again
Relax—
Ice yr drink—
Think—
Pursue a purpose, lost in flame
Become the scum you dote on, crab,
The sky, the ground, the square you are
The realm of flesh is one lone purge...
mercy mercy mercy
mercy mercy
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