one of those mornings where you feel like every scattered moving person in the city is just an electron in vast circuitry; water flowing along the pattern of a mandala. it was seeing the drying concrete that did it, thinking about the theory of urban life that says you never really live in a place until it have you name on it. the philosophy of graphitti artists & vandals. couldn't shake off the clamor of decay--though tempered with the persistant grip of evolution. pavement stones are ripped up & replaced with brick or asphalt or concrete. entire streets are devoured, absorbed into the body gotham. cells rushing through the veins of this great beast. you can't own a city, even if you cluster & ganglion yourself until you rule it. & in time the monster will stumble & die, & ghosts will haunt its ruins, flicking through the shadows of its snaggle-toothed skyscrapers.
wild vines all grown through-out our garden, this secret kingdom within my chest, wrecked within me. on the way home from grand army plaza, a man stopped krome & i & led us to his telescope, to look at saturn in the sky, rings flaring. my shadow from a street-light caused problems till i hunched even further. & i already stoop like a goblin. but take that 500 years ago! my casual surprises involve high-powered telescopes! i can tell i'm awake, i think; i differentiate successfully between fact & fantasy. but i can't really be sure. every so often the petal blossoms & the evil organ music starts up. & the thing is. tough shit, mordicai. we all know who you are by now. even my adoration of fascism can't overcome the 666 barcode. i fight all teams in the endgame. i'll turn the end of the world into something meaningful. oh we wounded angels. here i am, totally anxious & conscious of my tongue against my teeth. teeth, the talons of my face. the clicking-clacking of the whole, bestial thing. the scissoring sound of knives against kings. i soak within myself so easily when left to myself. my indulged madness.