As I was walking across town (after I’d gotten off the bus and headed downtown to try and catch S after the d&p brunch interview), I was thinking to that it would be super near to run across Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the street. We’d had a run if visits where we’d seen famous people wandering around town and I think he would have been one of the few celebrities that I would have actually said something to. It’s weird in that town though – and in our culture – celebrity as wild and often documented bird that remains surprising to see in the wild of their home environs.
Anyway, I’m implicated and caught up in all if this shit even though I’d much rather not be. So yeah, walking and thinking about seeing celebrities and this guy wearing a ball cap crosses the street from St. Marks and it looks like it might be him… This was right after I stepped out into the street to take picture of this pave cutter that looked like it needed an operator.
Just sort of hanging out on Astor. The weapons and how we drive them in tandem with their abandonment.
But it wasn’t him. Was just some dude.
I caught up with Shan and went up to the theater with her and then wandered to an art shop to pick up some ink for a book cover and back across town to meet up with her parents who had driven down to see Beertown that night. The show was awesome – full of lively debate, some audience members who were more committed to their characters than some if the cast members, and solid performances all around. The next morning I pull up twitter and see some ridiculous post retweeted from the ny post – that nonsense toilet paper that my grandmother absolutely loved – that said Phillip Seymour Hoffman had been found in his apartment dead with a needle in his arm. I thought it was a joke at first, but it wasn’t. Other sources we’re reporting it as well.
Now I don’t know why I was floored by this. Had read about his addiction struggles and knew that this was something that a lot if people couldn’t get around – had people I know succumb to their addictions and a handful still working through the day to day. People that I Iove. But there is still something to this man who was able to show us the worst parts of ourselves and show how we’re not only those things – that humans have to be seen (or should be given the chance to be at least) as better than our worst parts…that he who inhabited this space so regularly could get swallowed by the instruments that sometimes lead us into the worst parts if ourselves cut into me some. And then there was the policing of feeling on Facebook which is another thing entirely, maybe another post here if I get to it…
To live publicly and die publicly is that somehow as sad as doing those anonymously?
A host of light is a bright thing. If you look before the walls come up, what you seem in metal to make or shift – one power source isn’t all that gatherable. There’s another word for this and I’m leaning into the glass before the light gets shuttered. Oil remains. An everying. As in all treatments, lasted and classic. Take hair fashion, or the 16 on center stud. One mustn’t let the regulations diminish to mush. There’s an etched and erased choice ghosting the center beam. I put my fingers into every socket from eye to outlet I encounter. A hat less thanks its shock and getting. Which meanness in the cut wood replaces itself with standing metal – nothing hammerable at all in this. Just gypsum to catch with wires. Watch.
Retreating hammers, the wood placemat. Are in other words a weather crime.
Seen from above, the fallen tree looks something like a relative – in green and yellow
similar to what the uniform of a hometown might suggest – say rams or hornets nest.
The police were agents of the street. They had their pepper spray and other weapons
ready for whatever element might come barreling. Lines of chalk sought their broken
Edges. This while waiting for the bus or heat to finally arrive. There was nothing
to suggest foul play. All the perpetrators wore new linens, were ready to swear
The fallen tree into a table-shape and sit quietly fingering their now cool soup.
It had previously been unseemly.
For the piecing of parts together, we can play
count the eyes – three, and when the fourth becomes
visible, and not an impenetrable wall of I’ll-lick-your-
hair, or this surface in its smoothness is nothing
like the moon, we will build a bridge together of tap
Look how the cards glow, and the adoration
tossed upward before the beat begins. Melanie
might be questioning the decision to lead with an off-
suit seven, but Kuro don’t mind. He’s all like,
let me touch those locks. I know the fish in the aquarium
are just snack sized, but they’re tasty, too.
Like the even space between two things to look out from + a series of bored holes in the struck language we put up to our faces, such are the mean and intentional swearings we cast as prayer, cast as pull, hook as lip, bill as spell. If you punish your name enough it will grow. The box is never quite small enough to take thought and sound out from its interior. I watch the blade-light wood grow its sayings and from below the woman on the ladder looks like an extension corded to the plug of her brush – double-handed and drawing the pale shapes down into something she’ll pronounce with hushes pressed between. No exotic flower on the tongue, just the fret of age and wearing a name not hers outward skinned like this.
The antswarm round your neck up like it was some
collection of tiny field animals and the break
of the building’s corner the pen
to keep them stored. If we’re to believe the lips and neon
a body makes backcropped onto street and scene.
Onto building and hair care procession. Here’s the red of the root and the pale
buff of wet concrete – we will be seated in a flurry of scissorwork –
the brush pull and snap. What rope lines
an ear of corn, what silk pulled taut along the jawline
to draw angles from a face – whoever painted this building
makes dual-headedness feel chic. I trust
the blood that courses just below the scalp runs just the same
temperature as the hot oil treatment – and to look two ways at once
you could just slit your face down the front
and peel it back – eyes stacked on top of eyes on top
of engine-run-red in black and white.
When the waters made their god, they pressed the colors up into rows like a sky/ They talked in collective violence, shined their parts against piping, lost the flute noises among the other noises they had yet to find names for along the edges of the land. When the gods groaned into life it was like there was this reflection of a wheel burning. A rubber tire, hole right in the center of its fire and through that came the clownfish, or the roar of salmon. No one pressed the valves into shapes they couldn’t drink from – there was abundance and there was the spoke of life-like light smearing itself on all glassy surfaces. Now we are in the belly of worship. Now we are confined to metal licking and the lift of organ song – a name for drinking has been pasteurized and vaulted. The fire cones along the ceiling looking for a head to streak with tongues. We sip our wort until the season calls it finished. Blue like the ridden ghost along a ceiling. The framing glow. Arches for the light to linger down. And in the center of our visions the copper weights, the waters process bared and barely free.