I Wish I Wrote This

The Dawn

By Federico García Lorca 1898–1936


Dawn in New York
has four columns of filth
and a hurricane of black doves
splashing in putrid waters.


Dawn in New York whimpers
down the huge stairs
seeking in the chaff
flowers of sketched anguish.


Dawn comes and no one recieves it in his mouth
because there is no tomorrow or possibility of hope.
Sometimes furious swarms of coins
drill and devour the abandoned children.


The first to leave understand in their bones
there'll be no paradise or leafless loves;
they know they go to the filth of numbers and laws,
to artless games, to fruitless sweat.


The light is buried by noises and chains
in the obscene challenge of rootless science.
In the neighborhoods are people who wander unsleeping
like survivors of a shipwreck of blood.

Looking Forward

If I could go back I would.
To before I knew any better, to 14 or 15.
When the world seemed giant and conquerable.

Or to 20.
When I moved to New York, and
Dreams rapidly became realities, became memories.

It is a bit sad.   I know.  But
If I could go back I would.

I watch the past in my dreams.  All fuzzy and I
could have done so much more...or maybe just
So much better.

I would go back with the knowledge I have now, or without.
I miss with great longing, the realization that something simple could change my world.
That I could sing on a stage.
That I could be someone.

I have some regrets, but they are few.  And still, I would go back,
Amass more, and charter a whole new path.
Not because this one is so bad, but because I am not wide eyed and desperately hungry
anymore.

I'm Not A Loser...

The Descendents ruled my junior high school world with a relentless barrage of amazingly catchy songs in the tune of punk rock.  They have continued to be a favorite band of mine nearly 20 years on now.  Milo and co. are finally gonna play NYC, and with H20 (a band who I really like and respect greatly) no less.

Fuck YEAH!

My Favorite Songs Part 5...

The guitars shred through rock n' punk n' glam and roll.  The drums are hit with an urgency that you just know will come to a pay off.  While the bass jumps around, at times sporadic, but mostly holding the distrust of it all together.

"Call us fags and call us phonies..."

Lyrics spit out with a sneer and a promise.  Never pretty sounding ('just meetings and functions and social corruptionnn').  But always compelling ('we make the ginamone'). Catchy.  Crass.  Cocky.  A celebration.  Of panic and pain.  Purity and longing.  Loneliness...served up with guitar and drum.

No Way Out...indeed.

New York City

I remember I was in my room.  My first apartment, on Ave. C and 3rd St.
And I remember how annoyed I was to be woken up by my band member and roommate. 

I almost recall trying to say something nasty, but was a bit hungover and too slow to spit it out.

The news was vague, but horrific.

Before we knew it there was dust in the air.  Soot.  Ashes...from bodies and buildings.  
People with names.

..................................................................................................................

We didn't know where to eat.  Not that we cared.
But none of us knew what to do.

Cafe Orlin was open on St. Marks Place.

I have held an irrational disdain for Orlin ever since.
I never realized why until now.

They were still serving.

We went to 85A a day or so later.
And drank like nothing happened or
maybe like everything did.

Sometimes the hardest things never truly ease.
The persistence of their memory.

They become a part of us.
Goosebumps.  Uncomfortable.  And persistent.

That I can never, and would not ever want to forget.

Silent Gratitude

 

I work next to WTC and i saw 2 people cheering and they were both donning flags and newspapers with tourists taking their pics. I saw many more people taking photos with firefighters and cops and expressing their gratitude. I also saw one construction work hang a flag maybe 20 stories up on a building being constructed while 30 people or so looked on in silence. I find the response I have seen in the media of people as if they were on spring break, if not offensive, at least off putting. But down here I just have not seen that. It takes me all I have to walk past ground zero every day and not think of the soot and ashes of buildings and bodies that made its way towards the east village slowly after the planes hit. Yesterday, l looked in the faces of some first responders and couldn't help but feel a sense of relief, for them. For me. For us. I know he was largely a figurehead at this point. But in a way that makes it all the more meaningful.

I Want to Live Forever

There are a few days before I turn thirty.  I have achieved my main goal upon moving to the city.  I have managed with little vocal ability to front 2 (3 if you count The Tits, who were brilliant) bands that played often and well. 

The Kick was not my meal ticket,  But got me on stage,  And serious about being a vocalist.  We never burned hot enough too fade away with any note.  But we did it.  Hard enough to break up when I was planning a takeover of the world during what I naively assumed was just a hiatus. 

We have some leftovers.  A tune on a comp.  An ep I don't even own.

Thirty doesn't sound or seem old.  But conversely, looking back at 21....

Inspiration is Not a Dirty Word

I recently had the pleasure of meeting for coffee with a reporter whom I continually admire.  A journalist who has done more to shine a light on the plight of people, especially women, in countries often overlooked, than any one I am aware of.

He was personable and inquisitive.  At one point I asked about what a person with limited expendable income, if any, should do to help right the vast wrongs that exist globally.

He somewhat predictably, but no less correctly, suggested finding one slice of a problem and making that your focus.  He also said he felt that people, especially younger people (with means) seemed too often to view their lives in three chapters.  Go to school, make money and then give back.  Finally he mentioned that people so often think of becoming committed to a volunteer opportunity as a sacrifice when in fact it so often becomes a passion.

What about monetary gifts?  I said that I gave to Obama's campaign and various progressive groups.  But I work in a non-profit and I know how little that twenty dollar gift goes.  Which brought me to mention another writer, George Tabb.

To call George Tabb a friend (which he is) is to short change him severely.   He is an inspiration, a confidant, a brother in arms.  A fucked up hero of the most epically delightful and dastardly proportions.

So when I said to the journalist that I gave a few dollars here and there to George.  He did not hesitate.  He raised a fist and smiled.  We both new that this money would go directly to a good cause.  He noted that this type of giving may be  a part of the future of social networks.  So why George?

I was maybe 21 when I woke up and got a call from my buddy Tommy congratulating me.  On what...?  I was fully confused.  George was a writer for the New York Press at the time and just got my first band The Kick named 'Best Punk Rock Band in NYC,' complete with a cartoon drawing of us fools.

That is the kind of guy George is.  I could go on (like when I sang Sonic Reducer at Bowery Ballroom for Joey Ramone's Birthday Bash with Furious George) and on.

George is sick.  He lived downtown in NYC on 9/11.  He has been an outspoken supporter of those affected by the tragedy.  And now he could use our help.

I say with the utmost humility and sincerity that I believe anything will be greatly appreciated.  By George (and by myself as well).

So this does not ring hollow I will be giving back to George this week.  Not a whole lot.  But what I can.  


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