I was walking back from a rehersal for Shakespeare on the Green and I had the idea for this short film. Splice together segments from the Matrix, Hackers and Star Wars to create the modern romance. Later, while indulging in intense consumerism at the Providence Place Mall, I had the first conceptualization of the digital romance. Traditionally, the romance was understood from a chivalric model. What was introduced from courtly love and the Morte d'Arthur eventually grew into a celebrated genre of human thought- the passionate tales of love and how love is to be pursued and manifested in society.
The advent of the digital age fundamentally changed the way the world worked, but has yet to truely pierce the heart of the romance. Looking at these high-tech, sci-fi classics only exposes this understanding. While the romances take place with a new techno-eroticism and allow for the pixel to co-exist with the passion, the digital age has not really changed the romance. Luke has a new excalibur in a light saber, Neo needs love to be resurrected, and Crash Override can only be humbled in his love for the girl.
Has the digital age changed romanticism? Or is this just LCD screens and chivalry?
1/02/2007
people don't believe in poetry anymore
people don't believe in poetry anymore.
They did once,
when they were little
when they still believed in fairies and
clapped through performances of peter pan
begging Tinkerbell
breathe!
Poetry was part of that life they lived
before DARE programs or cynicism,
before dances, before Holden Caulfield,
before people told them they couldn't just like it-
before people told them there was something else in it.
Poetry was an imaginary friend
he was the late night joker under the sheets
she was his first kiss,
he was a pirate, a king, a knight in shining armor
she was a princess, a queen, a knight in shining armor
there were faces peeking out from commas
and sword fights in exclamation points
there were castles in stanzas
ships in hyperbole, alliterative adventures,
white chalk on black asphalt
words formed and existent forever
reclaimed by nature in a drenching rain
but always there.
Poetry was what they begged
their fathers & mothers & brothers & sisters
& aunts & uncles & neighbors & babysitters
to read.
(Just read what this says
read it again,
what do they mean?
What happened before that?
Where do the pirates sleep?
(How come it sounds so pretty?))
Poetry was bedtime, mornings, the wheels on the bus,
the light through the trees changing outside the brick school
Poetry was the tear in Dad's eye
(this one always gets me)
the confession, the slow sigh, the laugh,
the enlightened twinkle, the never ending conclusion,
the end too soon-
(I think that's enough for tonight)
(no,
no it's not)
On the bus home, down the sidestreets,
Poetry was the wind on the road
it was laughter, it was hopscotch,
a trite norman rockwell moment
a raw experience they wouldn't find the words to
until years later.
Poetry was a passion that no one else understood.
It was sneaking up to the beach for the full moon
climbing onto the garage roof and watching the fireworks,
repeating the sentences when the night was cold
writing the words when the day was alone.
Poetry was what happened to them when
Dad got back from work
and told them to put the book away
(I think it's time...)
It was what happened between the lines
when the teacher asked them
what it was really about.
It was what happened outside the dance
when they spit blood for the first time
and sat alone on the car ride home
answering that (yes the dance was good)
and that (no I did not dance with the girls)
It was the lie about the fat lip,
It was the sob that escaped in the room
It was the conviction, it was the understanding,
It was the brazen foresaking, it was the silent withdrawal
It was a shrug.
(I think that's enough for today)
(no,
no it's not)
Poetry what was died
when there were no longer dragons in the forest
when santa stopped being real questionable line.
when a word became only a word
Poetry was what stopped keeping them up at night
with the certainty that a monster was under the bed
with the conviction that the cliché was always possible important line, cause you indulge in cliches
with the understanding that there was something separate
called the ideal.
It was when the shadow stopped being a friend
the night became just a night
dawn lost her meaning
the summer was no longer fireflies
and magic, just books you had to read
and arguments.
Poetry was what they stopped listening to
believing in,
writing,
reading,
hoping for.
Poetry became the unexplained.
The toys that mom threw out when she was cleaning the attic,
the baseball card collection.
it was something they used to do,
and confessed sheepishly that they had believed
and laughed with the others who too had believed
and condescended.
Poetry was the unmistakable whisper that they heard
when they walked through the buzz of life
and felt disconnected again,
it was the surging of unbridled emotion that told them
(you are in love!)
but still they did not believe.
It was a tingling before they knocked on the door
the sudden belief that the moon was more than the moon
the unexpected, uncontrolled desire to run and never stop running
it was the understanding that the words were written for them:
(you, yes you,
I wrote this for you)
Poetry was what happened when they lived how they wanted to
Poetry was what taught them they could fly,
Poetry made them heroes
Poetry kept them up all night clapping and screaming
Breathe! Damn it! I want you to Breathe!
But mostly, people don't believe in poetry anymore.
They did once,
when they were little
when they still believed in fairies and
clapped through performances of peter pan
begging Tinkerbell
breathe!
Poetry was part of that life they lived
before DARE programs or cynicism,
before dances, before Holden Caulfield,
before people told them they couldn't just like it-
before people told them there was something else in it.
Poetry was an imaginary friend
he was the late night joker under the sheets
she was his first kiss,
he was a pirate, a king, a knight in shining armor
she was a princess, a queen, a knight in shining armor
there were faces peeking out from commas
and sword fights in exclamation points
there were castles in stanzas
ships in hyperbole, alliterative adventures,
white chalk on black asphalt
words formed and existent forever
reclaimed by nature in a drenching rain
but always there.
Poetry was what they begged
their fathers & mothers & brothers & sisters
& aunts & uncles & neighbors & babysitters
to read.
(Just read what this says
read it again,
what do they mean?
What happened before that?
Where do the pirates sleep?
(How come it sounds so pretty?))
Poetry was bedtime, mornings, the wheels on the bus,
the light through the trees changing outside the brick school
Poetry was the tear in Dad's eye
(this one always gets me)
the confession, the slow sigh, the laugh,
the enlightened twinkle, the never ending conclusion,
the end too soon-
(I think that's enough for tonight)
(no,
no it's not)
On the bus home, down the sidestreets,
Poetry was the wind on the road
it was laughter, it was hopscotch,
a trite norman rockwell moment
a raw experience they wouldn't find the words to
until years later.
Poetry was a passion that no one else understood.
It was sneaking up to the beach for the full moon
climbing onto the garage roof and watching the fireworks,
repeating the sentences when the night was cold
writing the words when the day was alone.
Poetry was what happened to them when
Dad got back from work
and told them to put the book away
(I think it's time...)
It was what happened between the lines
when the teacher asked them
what it was really about.
It was what happened outside the dance
when they spit blood for the first time
and sat alone on the car ride home
answering that (yes the dance was good)
and that (no I did not dance with the girls)
It was the lie about the fat lip,
It was the sob that escaped in the room
It was the conviction, it was the understanding,
It was the brazen foresaking, it was the silent withdrawal
It was a shrug.
(I think that's enough for today)
(no,
no it's not)
Poetry what was died
when there were no longer dragons in the forest
when santa stopped being real questionable line.
when a word became only a word
Poetry was what stopped keeping them up at night
with the certainty that a monster was under the bed
with the conviction that the cliché was always possible important line, cause you indulge in cliches
with the understanding that there was something separate
called the ideal.
It was when the shadow stopped being a friend
the night became just a night
dawn lost her meaning
the summer was no longer fireflies
and magic, just books you had to read
and arguments.
Poetry was what they stopped listening to
believing in,
writing,
reading,
hoping for.
Poetry became the unexplained.
The toys that mom threw out when she was cleaning the attic,
the baseball card collection.
it was something they used to do,
and confessed sheepishly that they had believed
and laughed with the others who too had believed
and condescended.
Poetry was the unmistakable whisper that they heard
when they walked through the buzz of life
and felt disconnected again,
it was the surging of unbridled emotion that told them
(you are in love!)
but still they did not believe.
It was a tingling before they knocked on the door
the sudden belief that the moon was more than the moon
the unexpected, uncontrolled desire to run and never stop running
it was the understanding that the words were written for them:
(you, yes you,
I wrote this for you)
Poetry was what happened when they lived how they wanted to
Poetry was what taught them they could fly,
Poetry made them heroes
Poetry kept them up all night clapping and screaming
Breathe! Damn it! I want you to Breathe!
But mostly, people don't believe in poetry anymore.
12/25/2006
Indefinite Bohemia
I got a pair of GEEK boxer shorts for christmas and it makes sense. In the four days I have been off from school I have accomplished one thing beside buying presents for the family: I now know how to podcast. So forgive me this first adventure. It's a crazy little demo I did on the Lapple featuring Epic Trance and T.S. Eliot. For those of you out there who remind me to stay out e, adderrol and what-not, here's a reminder to keep on reminding. You have no idea what craziness I can get up to when I'm alone.
Indefinite Bohemia
Indefinite Bohemia
9/30/2006
9/12/2006
I am afraid of the Dark
Back in the day, Are You Afraid of the Dark? was the show of choice. This was back in the age when quality ghost stories could potential get you a snuggle or (gasp!) maybe even a kiss from a pretty girl who you freaked out with a story. This was an early 'get-laid' tactic. If you could tell a scary enough story you could also pick up 'street-cred' with the guys in the group.
On an almost tribal level, telling a scary entertaining story is almost like playing the shaman in a pre-pubescent neighborhood heirarchy. As the teller of scary tales, you were the commander of the frightening. You manipulate the elements and the components to induce fear. You control the chills of your friends in a twisted, preverse manner that almost alienates your from society in the telling.
This episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? is legitimately scary. After faint memories of the show and how 'awesome' it was, I found myself looking it up for a review on a Tuesday with little actual work to be done. Enter YouTube and a window into my past.
My Roomate and I remembered Are You Afraid of the Dark? to be entertaining if not hokey and hilarious. Scary was not a quality that we attributed to the show; we were not afraid of the dark.
After watching this little episode, we were scared out of our minds. This was absolutely terrifying. It was goddamn chilling. I am actually still recovering. In many ways, I am going to have to go get some Hot Chocolate or something to perk my human psyche. I feel like Harry Potter in the Prisoner of Azkaban, the dementor of this classic Nickelodeon show has emptied my being of happiniess.
I need some action or sugar.
I am afraid of the dark.
8/27/2006
Snakes on a Plane - My YouTube Expose
Excuse my first foray into the realm of YouTube and home-made films. This ins't pornography or anything, but I wish it was.
8/24/2006
OK GO! More Fun with Treadmills
OK GO - "Here it goes again"
A friend found this video on late night MTV2. It's amazing. I saw OK GO! in Providence last year on a $5 show. They were great. At the end of the show, the band got out on stage for their encore and did this amazing dance routine.
I guess it was a taste of things to come.
With this video, OK GO fulfils the image that they left on the Stage in Providence last January. They're cool. They're having a good time, and they don't care who knows it. Like Hot Hot Heat, the OK GO sound is poppy and catchy, but also distinctively Artsy. Like Talking Heads (Who actually formed at RISD in Providence to define Art Rock) OK GO thinks a lot about image and a lot about the purpose of their music.
Maybe with this Track "Here it goes again" Ok Go shows us that this agind Art Rock foursome has a couple more twists left in the clothesline.
8/20/2006
Snakes on a Plane
Snakes on a Plane was cult before it was even filmed. The idea that Hollywood would produce a movie as obvious, ridiculous, and gratuitous as Snakes on a Plane seemed to connect with an American youth all too willing to revel in the absurd. In truth, the movie, and it's enormous word-of-mouth hype are anything but disappointing. This movie is AMAZING. It is absolutely hilarious, and at times, downright scary.
Samuel L. Jackson's decision to be in this movie may go down in history as one of the wisest choices for a falling Hollywood actor. A number of bloggers and internet pundits called Jackson's decision an inevitable choice in the quest to find the ultimate flop. But this is the wrinkle in which Snakes on a Plane lives and breathes.
Like The Producers, Snakes on a Plane is born to lose. It is designed to fail, engineered to flop. But in this decision, Snakes' producers hit solid gold. By making the movie as cliched, and predictable and gratuitous as they could, they created a film that is not only enjoyable by downright thrilling. It is like watching a two hour cartoon on Saturday morning television. You know every twist, you can predict who will and will not die, and you can expect Samuel L. jackson to be the fucking man.
That's what happens. That is what makes this movie SO SATISFYING.
In a interview with Jon Stewart, Samuel L. Jackson said that he didn't even read the script before agreeing to do it. He read the title and decided to go for it. We, like Jackson, only need to read the title before WE go to see it. Sure it's obvious, but hell, isn't all of the fodder that Hollywood feeds us?
At its core, Snakes on a Plane is a bad movie that embraces its faults and becomes the most enjoyable movie of the summer. There has been NOTHING better this summer. There hasn't been a movie like Snakes on a Plane since Independence Day.
As a satire on the American Summer Blockbuster, Snakes on a Plane seems to cry for justice in the Hollywood movie industry. It makes fun of itself, and does not fall into the usual Blockbuster pretentiousness for which Hollywood is known the world over. Snakes on a Plane is not the best acted, or best produced, or best made film of the summer. BUT it is the best film.
Do yourself a frickin' service and see this movie. Everyone will talking about, it is a instant cult classic and the college campuses will not be able to live without it.
So save yourself the embarassment of thinking that Superman was the best film of the summer, and see SNAKES ON A PLANE.
As Samuel L. Jackson explained to Stewart on Comedy Central, "Snakes on a Plane may be the best film of the summer."
There is no maybe and no doubt.
IT IS!
8/19/2006
8/07/2006
7/27/2006
MSTRKRFT - Easy Love
I escaped Acquidneck Island long enough to hear great music that wasn't playing at the Music Box or on 'BRU. The song was called "Easy Love", and it had the kind of Daft Punk flair that first hooked me on house all those many years ago. Digging a little deeper, I found MSTRKRFT, the artist behind "Easy Love", to be two underground DJs out of Toronto.
Their website linked to a myspace and a playlist of remixs and original material. IT was SOLID. Ever since Daft Punk dropped the ball with their Human After All album, I have been suffering a severe case of hip- House withdrawal. In fact, the house scene has been so weak since Daft Punk tried to resurrect the genre in 2004, that I have been forced to look backward, and buy OLD albums to get my groove on.
Now, thanks to MSTRKRFT, I've got a new summer anthem, and a new House duo to believe in. MSTRKRFT falls into the rich lineage of artists that include Safari Duo, Daft Punk, Deep Dish, and Sasha & Digweed. I salute them for providing me with some solid Techno Anthemry for a summer in desperate need of a soundtrack.
ON THE VIDEO I haven't completed decided if the video is intentionally ridiculous or a literal splurge in Soft - Core Pornography. In many ways, the video pays direct homage to the kind of 'sex-me-up' image that is associated with Techno and House music. In other aspects, the video is downright hilarious in its vulgarity.
While the video certainly starts off with hot women in skimpy outfits doing suggestive sucking movements, the full out splurges late in the video threaten to stain the entire video with a taste of inappropriate vulgarity. The women are hot, the video is fun, but the message is unclear.
Is this a sex anthem, a soft-core porno soundtrack, or the a digital joke played on an international community of cyber-rock cognizantis? You decide, and drop me a line.
7/11/2006
Lemonade & Godlessness
I paid my dues on the sidestreets today.
Between work and work, the lemonade vendors
Exploited me with promises of refreshment
And satisfaction.
There are no 8-year old pamphleteers here.
The Marxists have not yet penetrated the
Juevenile psyche, and funneled their voice
Through the children of Neighborhood America.
But the capitalists have.
and on hundreds of sidestreets and street corners
Around the country, budding entrepreneurs are screaming
LEMONADE! to the passerbys and leaning anxiously on
Their summer tables when the business is slow.
The tykes mix water and powder in Gatorade coolers
Left over from soccer season, and use plastic cups from
The barbeque collection.
Their parents write cute things like “College Fund”
On the Tupperware they use to hold the money,
So that passing geriatrics or other members of the
Customer cognizanti can laugh slyly at the clever kids.
The street is empty, for a moment, and the
Vigilante lemonade vendor kicks dully at the pavement;
His life has peaked in interest and rolled back again
Into the boredom that prompted his excursion into capitalism.
He thinks suddenly that it might be better if he had a sign at the end of the street,
and wonders if the advertising would pay off.
A car rolls around the corner and inspires an insipid
LEM-ON-ADE!
From the impossibly loud, mostly monotonic,
& ultimately uninspired, 8 year old.
I buy another cup, and wonder as he fills it up
If I could pull out a chair
and sit at the lemonade counter
Recounting troubles and toils
In the desert of the real.
But the boy’s mother has stopped washing the dishes now,
And anxiously, she looks out the window to see what kind of sketch-job
Won’t just get his lemonade, laugh at the “college fund” Tupperware,
And the hell on with his life.
The father comes down the stairs and begins repairing
A perfect part of the porch while glancing sideways at me.
He notes mentally my height, eye color,
Potential weight, and then assesses
Whether or not he can kick my ass.
Deciding yes,
The man starts up an awkward conversation
Coming down the stairs and brandishing his Home Depot hammer
As if he strikes nails and makes thunder
Proper Thor-style.
Another car rolls by and Trump jr. shouts his sale pitch
At the minivan.
I throw away my cup in the recycle bin,
And thank him for his hospitality.
I wonder if I’ll be able to get home without
Being jumped by another member of the Block Party for Profiteers
Hidden in the bodies of average American children.
I secretly hope that some subverted 11 year old,
Tempered with loss, exploitation, and a taste
Of bitter employment,
Will scream Communist propaganda as I take another sidestreet
On the way from work to work,
With a hindu desire to see some sense
Of harmony re-established on the all-too calm
American streets.
Between work and work, the lemonade vendors
Exploited me with promises of refreshment
And satisfaction.
There are no 8-year old pamphleteers here.
The Marxists have not yet penetrated the
Juevenile psyche, and funneled their voice
Through the children of Neighborhood America.
But the capitalists have.
and on hundreds of sidestreets and street corners
Around the country, budding entrepreneurs are screaming
LEMONADE! to the passerbys and leaning anxiously on
Their summer tables when the business is slow.
The tykes mix water and powder in Gatorade coolers
Left over from soccer season, and use plastic cups from
The barbeque collection.
Their parents write cute things like “College Fund”
On the Tupperware they use to hold the money,
So that passing geriatrics or other members of the
Customer cognizanti can laugh slyly at the clever kids.
The street is empty, for a moment, and the
Vigilante lemonade vendor kicks dully at the pavement;
His life has peaked in interest and rolled back again
Into the boredom that prompted his excursion into capitalism.
He thinks suddenly that it might be better if he had a sign at the end of the street,
and wonders if the advertising would pay off.
A car rolls around the corner and inspires an insipid
LEM-ON-ADE!
From the impossibly loud, mostly monotonic,
& ultimately uninspired, 8 year old.
I buy another cup, and wonder as he fills it up
If I could pull out a chair
and sit at the lemonade counter
Recounting troubles and toils
In the desert of the real.
But the boy’s mother has stopped washing the dishes now,
And anxiously, she looks out the window to see what kind of sketch-job
Won’t just get his lemonade, laugh at the “college fund” Tupperware,
And the hell on with his life.
The father comes down the stairs and begins repairing
A perfect part of the porch while glancing sideways at me.
He notes mentally my height, eye color,
Potential weight, and then assesses
Whether or not he can kick my ass.
Deciding yes,
The man starts up an awkward conversation
Coming down the stairs and brandishing his Home Depot hammer
As if he strikes nails and makes thunder
Proper Thor-style.
Another car rolls by and Trump jr. shouts his sale pitch
At the minivan.
I throw away my cup in the recycle bin,
And thank him for his hospitality.
I wonder if I’ll be able to get home without
Being jumped by another member of the Block Party for Profiteers
Hidden in the bodies of average American children.
I secretly hope that some subverted 11 year old,
Tempered with loss, exploitation, and a taste
Of bitter employment,
Will scream Communist propaganda as I take another sidestreet
On the way from work to work,
With a hindu desire to see some sense
Of harmony re-established on the all-too calm
American streets.
6/13/2006
World Cup Fever
So the World Cup has begun and I have fallen full prey of the veritable World Cup fever. In my irreverent disarray, I have begun a new blog that is dedicated SOLELY to World Cup 2006.
With help from the most knowledgable soccer scholar in New England, the intellectual Thomas Rodelli, I set sail into the wonderful tempest that is,
THE WORLD CUP.
Check it out @
http://the2006worldcupgermany.blogspot.com
With help from the most knowledgable soccer scholar in New England, the intellectual Thomas Rodelli, I set sail into the wonderful tempest that is,
THE WORLD CUP.
Check it out @
http://the2006worldcupgermany.blogspot.com
6/09/2006
Newport Film Festival
Nothing says it’s summer in Newport like the Newport International Film Festival. I call it by its full name here, but for the RI natives, and dedicated Newport filmophiles around 02840, its much better known as the Film Fest.
This year, I was late in getting my volunteer program up-to-speed. But, as expected, the general chaos of NIFF affairs and the great dearth of local, readily available help easily ingratiated me.
Last year, I was stuck at the Box Office moving boxes and putting up posters until I realized that I could practically walk into a film with a volunteer shirt on. That inspired me to spontaneously ‘volunteer’ at the Newport Art Museum screen, and vis-à-vis get to see Stolen, THE hot film of 2005.
This year, I have been stationed at Oprea House, which is generally preferable to any other venues because it offers three films in one location. Teamed up with my brother, I have balloted, ushered, assisted with video calibration and chatted up actors, writers and filmmakers alike. There truly is nothing like the Film Festival to start the Newport summer in proper cultural style.
6/06/2006
Xbox on the Porch
We moved the Xbox out on the porch and played Unreal Tournament with four players while the Thunderstorms moved in from the West.
Some skaters walked by at around eleven and stood there stunned while we shot each other up on a 15-inch screen and technoed out to a mix by Krafty Kuts.
It was proper Hackers.
It was proper cyber boheme, and as we sat in the building wind and pressure, with flashes from the thunderstorm reflecting across Narragansett Bay, and my mother screaming for us to come in, I thought to myself,
Upon what digital domain will the modern man lay down his controller for the praise of Mother Nature in the Midnight Melee eternal?
Just a thought.
Some skaters walked by at around eleven and stood there stunned while we shot each other up on a 15-inch screen and technoed out to a mix by Krafty Kuts.
It was proper Hackers.
It was proper cyber boheme, and as we sat in the building wind and pressure, with flashes from the thunderstorm reflecting across Narragansett Bay, and my mother screaming for us to come in, I thought to myself,
Upon what digital domain will the modern man lay down his controller for the praise of Mother Nature in the Midnight Melee eternal?
Just a thought.
Summer
All my life, I've wanted to write something true. Something definitive and new. Something worth reading.
It seems sometimes that just when you think that you've run out of air, when you can no longer gasp another breath and the world seems to stifle your very existence, you awake from a preaternatural slumber and explode.
This is the moment that I am waiting for,
This is the mission of my summer soliliqouys.
It seems sometimes that just when you think that you've run out of air, when you can no longer gasp another breath and the world seems to stifle your very existence, you awake from a preaternatural slumber and explode.
This is the moment that I am waiting for,
This is the mission of my summer soliliqouys.
5/21/2006
Nintendo Nirvana
Found this video while reviewing Google Video's Top 100. It seems that some students at Gordon College decided to act out Super Mario 3 at a talent show. It is, if nothing else, Gameboy Genius.
5/18/2006
Colour like no other...
So I followed up on a story on MSNBC on the Clio Awards. Every year, the Clio Awards recognize the best advertisements in the world.
This was my absolute favorite. It was made by this Danish director who had the idea of dropping 250,000 bouncey balls into the streets of San Francisco. I do believe that this ad may be the most stunning, inspired and creative work of advertising that I have ever seen.
Check it out.
This was my absolute favorite. It was made by this Danish director who had the idea of dropping 250,000 bouncey balls into the streets of San Francisco. I do believe that this ad may be the most stunning, inspired and creative work of advertising that I have ever seen.
Check it out.
5/15/2006
The Return of My Muse
She was
the curious rekindling of lost dreams
& is now
returned, rediscovered, reignited.
reenter the royal we
my princess and me
(just me, + she).
There was
The Death of the Artist in me
There is
The Resurrection of the Poet in me
WE.
Let the noun stand alone.
It is collective and substantial.
(Introduction unrequired
For a love unexpired)
There was
The poetry of Middle, Ages and Ages hence
There is
The new poetry of Ginsberg & Cummings since
There was
The midnight muse and the fairy in the drink
There is
The muse returned and love’s lost labors linked.
There was She was
There is She is
(explanation unrequired
for a love that is refired)
She is
The curious rekindling of lost dreams
& me,
(she is the ( ))
the curious rekindling of lost dreams
& is now
returned, rediscovered, reignited.
reenter the royal we
my princess and me
(just me, + she).
There was
The Death of the Artist in me
There is
The Resurrection of the Poet in me
WE.
Let the noun stand alone.
It is collective and substantial.
(Introduction unrequired
For a love unexpired)
There was
The poetry of Middle, Ages and Ages hence
There is
The new poetry of Ginsberg & Cummings since
There was
The midnight muse and the fairy in the drink
There is
The muse returned and love’s lost labors linked.
There was She was
There is She is
(explanation unrequired
for a love that is refired)
She is
The curious rekindling of lost dreams
& me,
(she is the ( ))
5/08/2006
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