Writing

The goal of this writing section is to write without worrying about judgment without thinking too hard or following EXCEPTIONS. It's just to type out something. The action of letting your imagination run free. breathe. Be receptive to sound. Feel your body. let it flow. it's all good just 26 CHARACTERS in a different orders.

Poetry, flow of consciousness, short stories, dreams, welcomed. Tell us lies, tell us truths, tell us whatever. t'sall good, we wanna know your consciousness if you want to let it out, baby!

I’ve decided to use this page as a personal journal as sorts. I have no shame in saying that I let this idea linger and float, but it’s nice to have the domain; funny that one for all would turn into all for one, but one is all, after all. Anyway, the writing page shall be my own, starting now.

And?

by Alexander Krinsky

She was drunk, so was I, but not as bad as her. She had it, though, had it together, functioning. She was beautiful too. The kind of beautiful where even if she did something wrong, it would look right, in a righteous kind of way. I wanted to sing with her, to her. She ran inside to grab a guitar as I took a swig from the bottle and watched her ass bounce in the summer moonlight blended with the warm street lamp light covered in summer vines. I had known her for a long time – I saw her dance freely in nightclubs when we were both underage, she was glistening with sweet-tasting sweat, untouchable. She always smiled when she saw me but never tried to know me, that was on everyone else. Back then, I didn't have what it takes. I wasn't there yet. I hadn't felt the blows of pain and the throws of love to see any woman clearly before that summer. It had all been worth it, though, to witness the light bounce of the moisture on her lips after she took the bottle from my hands, in that moment, everything was crystal. I felt the guitar in my hands, sort of crappy and mistreated. It seemed to me that that's how she treated everything: replaceable, expendable, disposable. My shit was ragged too. My guitar was warped from humidity with "it takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory and still love it," carved in its back. I wondered if she loved it. I let my fingers kiss the steel strings and felt their vibrations hum to the two of us and out to the vacuum of space above our heads. I let the words flow out of my mouth, each idea coming to me like a breath falling in and out of me, singing. I went in myself and was alone for a moment despite the equivalent of a solar eclipse drunkenly swaying beside me. I wondered if it was my ability to be alone while being next to her or my soul spilling out as I played, but when I finished, I felt the warmth of her face buried in my neck. I turned ever so slightly to meet her lips, the best kiss of the year. I felt a trickle of pain when our lips parted, not because she bit me like she would later, but because that moment completely contained was over, and there was still something I didn't get to taste. Some kind of sorrow, some kind of need. I just wanted to be of use. Summer nights, man.

I

through language,

may live infinitely,

but I is not infinite.

I is suffocating

the life that bares it

the mouth that molds it

me,

is metaphorically nonexistent

here.

I is a metaphor

here.

I is speaking truth to you,

but truth keeps lying, so

you can’t trust a single word

that I says.

You keep mistaking I for you anyway.

I don’t even know what

You means anymore.

I is a scratched record,

a skipping memory—

—a skipping record,

I is a scratched memory,

stuck traveling in circles,

in search

of the end

of the beginning.

People always ask,

“how are you doing?”

I says

“wonderful!”,

“alright.”,

“exhausted...”.

All of these words

become synonyms

for breathing,

and breathing is all I ever do.

Speaking is suffocating me.

But silence,

makes me choke on the smoke

that’s built up in my brain

from refraining to feel,

for fear that I’ll heal.

Through poems I peal apart what’s real,

in hopes that through my throat will congeal,

a concept of what’s next,

that has nothing to do with this country’s complex

obsession with

possession,

perfection,

complexion,

conception,

aggression,

oppression.

My breath is so tested.

My chest is distressed.

I’m stressed and I’m blessed,

while the rest of existence presses it’s wisdom into this cerebral cortex...

Now,

I’ve rhymed redundantly for so long that

I’ve forgotten what I’m writing about.

Oh right!

I’m writing about how

I’ve forgotten what I’m writing about,

why I’m writing.

What is writing

but a means to scream about

silence?

Can you hear me yet...

and when I say me,

I mean silence,

and when I say I,

I mean you...

Every answer that

I could possibly have for you,

is already stitched into my hands.

I wrap this eternal moment

in all of me,

and you watch,

misunderstanding misunderstood,

and

we are still waiting for silence to speak for itself...

we are still waiting for silence to speak...

we are still waiting for silence...

we are still waiting...

we are still... we

are...

we…

-GABE

Wait for the Moment - Review

by Alexander Krinsky

Vulfpeck, an ensemble of funk nerds, the product of years of musical and social progress, signify the times finally catching up with themselves. Vulfpeck producesfreeform jams painstakingly organized yet flowing. The band’s self-awareness and respect towards the hurdles musicians have overcome shines through the delicacy and diligence it gives to its sound, yet uncompromisingly, stays true to the place where the intrinsic need to express oneself originates. The band expertly organizes its compositions, giving each sound the space it deserves and in doing so – melds and merges music that hits the soul in such a way one cannot help to dance. The relatively unknown Vulfpeck, cultivated a dedicated young audience through superior rhythm and a live sound all too unfamiliar in the over-produced digital soundscape many of its fans grew up around. Vulfpeck, essentially a rhythm section out of Michigan, self produced and released three, six song EPs over the course of two and a half years to the delight of those who found it on the internet – for free. The majorly instrumental EPs gained some momentum but it was through a viral youtube video and first vocal Vulfpeck track “Wait for the Moment” that the band entered the spotlight.

Vulfpeck gained some notoriety in Europe by extorting Spotify’s business model with their album Sleepify, an album of complete silence – ten 30 second tracks – the band encouraged their small fan base to listen to on repeat as they slept. The $20,000 they made all went to fund a free tour hitting the locations that gave the most support. The band’s approach to marketing mirrors their musical ingenuity. Vulfpeck saw an outlet and made it their own. Vulfpeck formed out of Ann Arbor Michigan’s music school after producer and Vulfpeck’s bandleader, Jack Stratton, read an interview with German recording engineer Reinhold Mack. Mack had an image of a sort of German version of Motown and they were to produce that sound as an experiment. The multi-instrumentalists met that day unsure of what to expect but walked out knowing they’d channeled that era – a live rhythm section. From that point on Stratton knew he struck funk gold as did Vulfpeck’s bassist Joe Dart who impressed the ensemble and Stratton with his golden sounds off his bass, but few foresaw the funk revival on the horizon. Even in the growing contemporary funk scene – ripe with The Motet, Lettuce, Snarky Puppy, Orgone, and D’angelo – Vulfpeck’s sound remains unique. Funk ensembles collided loyal and seasoned fans with a new youthful demographic in the early twenty-teens, creating a musically intellectual yet extremely live scene. Guidance from the wise rock ’n’ roll veterans, savvy to talent and dedication, gave the young Vulfpeck fans the confirmation that the feeling in their bones held merit. This gave birth to a cult like dedication, a dedication that came off as just a ripple in this globalized world, but a ripple none the less.

“Wait for the Moment” opens up the My First Car EP with a relaxing R&B feel. Jazz chords on the keyboard, along with a very light and steady tap of the high hat and bass drum, smoothly welcomes former voice pathologist Antwaun Stanley’s vocal prowess. Joe Dart’s expert bass playing atop of the Stanley’s soulful moans provides just a glimpse of the union of sound to come. If one listens to the individual instruments played, each member contributes just a small amount to create a complex rhythmic collective. They de-emphasize melody and harmony to focus on groove and drums on the foreground, using extended chords and complex keyboard progressions to interlock each other’s vibe. The lyrics in “Wait for the Moment” are not poetic but rather act as a dance floor for Stanley to show and mobilize his vocal ability. Though just a map, the seemingly innocent almost tongue in cheek lyrics, set the listener in a familiar place – back in converses hoping the sun doesn't go down hoping for more fun with the homies outside. “Mom said: ‘wait for the moment!’ Gone home went to bed While the other kids, they’re still outside.” This visual scene is not steeped in meaning or trying in any way to convey something in particular, but rather simply, puts the listener in a comfortable spot to take on the musical subtitles that flow into a stellar composition. The heart of this rhythmic piece lies in fresh bass lines and chord progressions supported by constant attention to space through a light framework of drums. Not only extremely welcoming to the listener through providing endless licks, chord progressions and beats that even the most stark funk critic couldn't deny a boogie.

Vulfpeck welcomes other musicians. Though Vulfpeck’s increasingly fluid ensemble rotation keeps their style evolving, “Wait for the Moment” represents an accolade of how pure of a sound the core members of Vulfpeck are able to produce when they give each other space and connect through the formula of funk. Listening to Vulfpeck hit those golden sounds when they all come together promotes feelings of what young idealists know society could be. The moments in-between those collective sounds, the space they give each other shows recognition and respect to the importance of individualistic expression. The irresistibly funky bass riff that makes up the bridge followed by more tongue-in-cheek style lyrics continue, “I’m good at stuff, you're into stuff ohhooohoho,” these lackadaisical lyrics over the structured rhythm section Vulfpeck expertly provides, promote a feeling Vulfpeck wants its listeners to take in – a sort of walk with the funk in your step and in-your-chest no matter what vibe. Vulfpeck takes the listener home and back through “Wait for the Moment,” from the smooth intro to trailing out at the end – almost like sneaking out of your moms house, “Wait for the Moment” leads listeners to the rest of the EP.

Vulfpeck’s unprecedented presence in the music scene owes a portion of their validity to the times we live in, or rather in spite of them. Vulfpeck fills a void as a true pioneer chiseling away at the mainstream, while staying true to its art. Stratton said on a Reddit AMA, “it[’s] essential to own your masters these days. more important than ever. as we enter streaming, songwriting royalties are bubkes. it is not valuable anymore. To have a shot at making any money off digital music sales, you must own everything.”

Thrill of the Arts, Vulfpeck’s first full length album released October 2015 digitally and on vinyl thanks to a successful kickstarter.com campaign. Vulfpeck’s small dedicated fan base demonstrated even in modern times when things feel so vast, if one makes moves towards to see the changes they want to see, they will see them. Encompassing the vision of the ideal modern climate, through sound and representation the way Vulfpeck is doing is unprecedented and much like that vision Vulfpeck is just getting started.

Dreams Experimental Writing Session

by Alexander Krinsky

Ask me anything about American Dreams – about the tares in the soft sheets drying over green fenced in lawns, about the worn wooden floors where she would someday fall. It Her focus had dissolved so quickly... she hardly noticed. Got swept off her feet in new york city by a handsome average sized man with eyes like dark honey and a voice like her own conscious. He would take these pauses and close his eyes before he would speak, not at her but to her, every time - but she couldn't keep him. Only their son. The man was cursed to never allow himself to be happy, something he repressed that she never discovered, buried too deep. A sharp mind like hers was always busy, that's not to say a wise mind, but a sharp one. Always sheering away at life's excess fat and nowhere to dump it. Her son would find her tip-toeing with a rope one night. First time she had seen him up like that, just a little man - he'd just learned to walk - the boys timing was impeccable. That was the last time she took that thought seriously. She dropped the rope and scooped him off his feet, her tears dripping into his dark curls. The smell of her own, and the soft curls of his father locking away her tears from the light, forever, he smiled - unknowing of how powerful his stillness in the hall had just been.

Ask me about American Dreams – I had an American dream, one with flags, eagles and bruce springsteen but I woke up and our widespread militias, had their clips packed with ignorance and fear. Influence unfocused, too slow to keep up with the changes. The mission unclear, our peripheral vision blocked off like race horses, trying not to be spooked. The masses' voices calling out but only through distortion. Speaking all at once. Lack of exposure to each other leaving us ignorant and vulnerable. I woke up abandoned, the dream wasn't meant for everyone and now there are so many ones. So many actions everyone has begun to realize their nature and their effect matter less and less. Some American dreams are naps and some naps leave me fucking out of sorts.

Ask me about my American Dreams – I'd whisper them to you. I'm supposed to be... Fuck I hate the word "supposed" - useless really. It can lead to unneeded action too. I'm a journalist. Well, I'm trained to be a journalist. A mind I abuse drives around a body that I've been working on. Good thing I'm young. 23 right now 24 before I know it. Perfect for getting out there, perfect for helping to fuck it up through helping. I live in a time of Ubers, fleshlights, and pure streams information burning 8 inches from my eyes everyday. Not to mention the ball of light in the sky, that we all worship a little bit. It's all the same really in my semi burnt eyes. I live in a time of great shift, in a society with a collective and constant anxiety. "There are too many fucking people - we're hurting the environment - we're killing each other - we have not changed - we're trying, is it enough? - Fuck how can anyone relax? Oh don't worry we have pills for that. Pills and real ambient soundtracks on youtube. Don't worry about how big the world is and how many people suffer, but actually do worry, and feel bad about it too - the only reason you feel shitty about the state of things is because you can, because you don't have to worry about something else - good for you." Most people with a bed and internet access have had that line of thinking. But I'm a journalist, a modern anthropologist. I've traveled and I've found a great peace in myself during these travels. In fact, I find great peace inside myself when I'm home. "Home" another word that strikes a chord, maybe because it's losing its meaning...

I've realized through my experiences that is home and the only way to know it is to feel the warmth in you and let it guide you to stillness. I'm a journalist - I'm the eyes on the mundane on the horizon moment. The man who feeds the past to the future. Conflicting really. Though, Journalists can be heros. They chase after nothing and after catching up with it turn it into something. I feel like I can do that, but I have been trained. I'm a journalist.. I dream that I get out and find my truth, but to find it, I dream often of flipping over rocks to hundreds of bugs, cute ones though, rolly pollies. Fuck, maybe I'm just a writer or a poet or a blabbering man on the street. If I'm anything it's a man who enjoys a good conversation, a cold breeze, and an even colder drink. Maybe that's the dream all along, just the core of one of those moments. All things aside they do happen quite often in some places in the united states. Maybe I should report on that. When was the last time you felt completely at peace and your mind was silent? Describe it to me. Would I be a journalist then? Does that story have legs?

Depravity, Turkish Silvers, or Love at Seventeen

by Alexander Krinsky

Nicole.

She was beautiful, expressionless, eyes fixated towards the wall. She looked like a teenage Alice reliving her nightmares from beyond the looking glass.

“Nicole, are you okay?” She wasn't there. I realized I was alone.

A child, just seventeen, completely out of my element. I trusted her guarantee of fun. I had dreamt of that place from her stories. I had followed her to Brooklyn, a great night gave birth to a dark day as the sun rose. That morning, both of us just wanted to wake up.

***

When I first met Nicole, I was playing cards in the burnout section of my High School. I kept winning hands and she kept glancing over at me. Sometimes luck hits me hard, and when it does, dread pours over me as I can’t help but I wonder when it will run out. Later that day, she messaged me on Facebook, “How have I never met you b4?” Even though I thought she was beautiful with her cleft chin and golden hair, I didn’t write back. I was dating a fifteen-year-old Puerto Rican girl who would never go to college and sucked some 20-year-old dick an hour after I left her place. That didn’t last. After a few weeks of being sad and sort of hating everything with a kind of passion that only comes from the most teenage angst, I wrote Nicole back. Nicole was older, she was cool, she drove a light blue Camaro and had a house with high ceilings and parents I never once seen. A Swiss girl who got pissed when someone mixed it up with Sweden and always let them know how fucking stupid they were to not know separate countries. I could tell she chasing something; before she came to America, she was a skilled ballet dancer who tore a tendon. Studying at my school was a compromise, she lost her dream but kept the cigarettes and love of music. She walked like she knew where she was always going later, she would tell me at first wanted me for the same reason.

***

In the winter, she threw a party after I got had already arrived she texted me, “You should be here.” Her face light up five minutes later when she came downstairs and saw me. I felt important, but I played it cool and smoked a bowl with my friends. I danced and bobbed to the European techno she put on and smiled when I caught her looking at me. Later I went up the stairs, the walls were spinning and suddenly she grabbed me. I was pulled into a living room and pushed up against the wall. Our tongues met, and my blood boiled as she pressed her crotch against my leg and slid up just a bit higher to bite my lip. She looked at me deeply and contently, the light from the other room catching her eyes. She smiled and said, “About time.” I took her by the wrists and swung her against the wall. I put my hand up her shirt and felt a pierced nipple. It was a barbell, only on the left side. I twisted and she squirmed in pleasure. She stopped me. She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture. It was her and two of her friends from Switzerland. She pointed at one and explained, “See.. she is the cocaine face,” she giggled and pointed to the next, “and she is the ketamine, and me, I am the MDMA!” I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled.

“Alex, will you hold on to this for me?” She softly glided her hand across my crotch and slid her phone into my pocket, “don’t lose it.” I had never met anyone like her before. She was intense and raw, metallic yet soft. As I drank and I smoked and I danced, I kept checking my pocket. Her parents came home at one and she was swift about clearing out the house. I was in my friend's car about to leave when I realized I still had it on me. I told him I’d be right back and went inside the house. Nicole saw me coming and smiled as she took a pull of her Turkish Silver. Two of my friends were still there, stranded without a ride. I could tell they both wanted her – I could also tell she was annoyed. She offered to call them a cab, and when I looked at her for a split second, breaking my coolness and asking silently, “What about me?” She told me to go up to her room and wait for her to talk to her parents. Her room was dark but smelled like she did when I kissed her. I left the lights off and spilled onto her bed, I was spun. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the sink outside her room, and soon the door cracked open. The light from behind her cast her nakedness in shadow, seconds later, it was upon me. We fucked until we were both raw. I woke up the next morning alone.

When I look back, Nicole never showed me any real love. She wanted to fuck me up like she was fucked up, and in a lot of ways, she accomplished it. She liked me for the way I felt inside her and the way I was innocent and kind of sweet. In a way, I love that's how it went down. In a way, I’m better from it all.

***

In the beginning of Spring, I went over to her place to have sex. No bull shit, we both wanted it and everything before, during and after. After all the sweat and cum we went outside and sprawled out on her stone patio. There was a cloud swirling over our heads, it was moving fast and twisting, getting darker in certain spots, I felt the moisture in the air. The cloud broke and drops of rain started pouring on my bare chest. The wind picked up, it was warm and her golden hair batted my face. It started with the occasional drop here and there but soon it was pouring and we stayed there getting drenched and watching the clouds like a passing ship in an endless sea. I turned to her, “Hey, I think I love you.” She turned to me, kissed my forehead and I could barely hear over the rain but I think she whispered, “Don’t.” When we stood up, I noticed as my dry spot shadow began to fill in, drop by drop.

***

In the Summer, right after my junior year of high school, my friends and I decided to go to New York to see a show. It was common practice at that point. Our town was a 40-minute train ride from the city and we had all gotten fake IDs from China over the internet months before. One of my friends had been able to get some sassafras from his older brother, we all had a half-gram. My best friend and I pooled money and got everyone a bit of ketamine. I had started messing around with K after Nicole introduced me to it on a literal silver platter. With a full gram of “fun drugs,” we took to the city. We took the train and drank as we sang songs and headed ever closer to the city that never sleeps. Metro-North was the best back then, now it’s the fucking worst, fucking kids. The show was at Best Buy theater, which was once Nokia Theater and is now Play Station Theater in the middle of Times Square. We slid in line as they ushered the patient waiting on Broadway down onto 43rd Street – cutting the line that went down a full block. Worked like a charm every time. The show had already started and we could hear deep electronic bass echoing as we walked through the doors. We dipped down the stairs as a crew and blasted through the double doors falling into what can only be described as an absolute shit show. Fuzzy boots, glowing lights, dilated pupils, so much powder you could almost see the remnants of bumps floating through the air. I got excited, so I ripped the small plastic bag the sassafras were in and licked it all at once. For those who don't know, sass is the plant that MDMA comes from but it doesn't have any of the A. No amphetamines, which is actually really nice, but too much of anything is, well, too much. This shit blasted me. My eyes were milk saucers and I was sure I was flying through space on them. My heart was a drum and my head, an absolute mess. I was sweating and after feeling myself up, and down for that matter, I went up the side stairs to the cool air vent I had discovered a few months before. I looked for God in that vent because I was sure he was there blowing down my back. I reclined against it and let it do its work. I looked down onto the crowd and watched people dance and fall over themselves, it was beautiful. I’ve always been okay with the ugliness of man, we shit and sweat and bleed and eventually, we die and decay. We all know it but still, we can’t get down with seeing people cut loose. I’m that way too. I never want to be the mess and in a way, nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing that state and holding it down, forcing people to question their cool. Still, there’s beauty everywhere, even when a bunch of kids are ruining their brains at some terrible rave, or at least that's what I thought when I realized Nicole was by my side looking for God in the vent, too. I was all over her, sweat, grime and greasy hair. Our heat would've killed us if it wasn't for the God in the vent. We stayed there together as one until my friend found me to tell me they were all heading back to Grand Central to catch the last train home. I asked Nicole what she was doing and she told me she was going to Brooklyn after the set. We sat together in stands until the set was over. She was holding me thank god, I was sure if she wasn't, my soul would’ve left my body from the waves of ecstasy. It was over 20 minutes after they had left, and when the lights went on you could see the floor stained from spilled drinks and god knows what else. Brooklyn sounded real good.

***

We took the 5 downtown from Times Square and stepped outside to meet up with Nicole's friend Jess. I was still rolling and grabbed onto Nicole, ignorant that I left my wallet on the train. I was completely spun out. Jess had 20 bags of blow in her bra and handed one to Nicole with a smile as if to make up for her missing the show. Nicole pulled out a metallic straw caked in K and coke, stuck it deep into the bag, and inhaled. The three of us went back down into the subway and caught the J headed deep into Brooklyn. I honestly don’t remember what the stop we got off at was but I haven't been there since. The three of us walked down the platform stairs and I realized shadows were walking among us, smashing bottles and lurking about. I put out an air that I knew where I was going and tricked myself into thinking I had control, I leading Nicole but really just following her a bit ahead. The house we turned into had a broken front step and a toppled-over cone kicked to the side. She opened the door as if it were her own house, and we were greeted by bass thumping. The walls were padded with a foam material meant to absorb the sound, there was a guy passed out on the couch helping absorb some noise as well and not much else. The guy was in his forties, at least. The shag floor was stained. A guy came down whose eyes were as vacant as they were shallow, Nicole greeted him like an old friend. Jess pulled another bag from her stash and offered it to him. They exchanged money, and the guy asked me to follow him upstairs to check out his studio. It wasn’t impressive, a lot of the equipment looked stolen from its dings and scratches.

“This so so dope!” I lied. He smiled at my approval and showed me a track he had produced that sounded like metal grinding and robots gargling mouthwash. I was starting to come down from some extreme highs so as we went downstairs I asked Nicole if she knew anyone who had some weed so I could roll a blunt. She found someone in seconds flat, not only with bud to spare but a Dutch as well. I twisted it up and as I rolled it up, I noticed the black sky was replaced by dark blue. I thought to myself of how fresh the stars back home looked and how I’d been robbed of them that night. We went outside and smoked the blunt as the sun rose behind the buildings. The light crept over the horizon, skipping off broken glass – its light revealing the true face of where we sat. The neglected pigeon coop next door, the torn police tape fluttering in the early summer winds. I looked towards Nicole. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember she didn’t really respond, she just kind of nodded as if she heard my voice. I said something to Jess but she was vacant too.

“Let's go inside,” I said, standing up. The back porch was directly outside the kitchen and with the light of the morning Sun, I saw what a neglectful state it was in. Nicole sat down in a wooden kitchen chair and looked directly ahead of her at a brick wall. I took her hand. The guy who showed me his studio was cooking Ketamine, which is basically diluting it in water and steaming it on a microwave plate to make it fluffier for sale. A guy walked in the kitchen I had never seen before and laid a line in front of Nicole.

“That's for you,” he said to her with a sly grin and tone. She just kept looking at the wall. The guy scoffed and left the line there. Time was a mess but what felt like a few minutes later, a Chinese guy walked in the back door. He didn’t speak English very well and it was obvious that, like the rest of us, he was still up from the night before. He asked Nicole what the line was made up of and when she didn’t respond, I told him we didn’t know. He told me he didn't care and snorted it. After that, he was all kinds of sped up and told me how he came from China to study math and engineering. He told me I reminded him of his best friend. Nicole kept looking at the wall. I asked her, “Nicole, are you okay?” She turned and looked at me like I had stabbed her in the back. As if my asking set in stone once and for all that she wasn’t. She said nothing and turned back, I noticed her hands were gripping the wooden seat and her nails were dragging against the splintering wood. It looked painful, almost like a claw. I looked into the next room from my seat and saw a cute girl dancing around to some music, sexy in fishnets but dead tired. Amphetamines, clearly. Also, clearly my age. I looked at her and back at Nicole. I had no idea what was going through her mind and bloodstream at that point but I felt bad for her. She was so beautiful when she was having fun. Swing and a miss. I hadn’t seen Jess in a while. A huge man guy gave a handle of whiskey to Nicole and she held onto it like a stuffed animal. I looked at her then and there; we had been sitting at the table for hours at this point, and I realized she needed someone. I had been following her for so long but there was no way out of this one, not without me taking control. I finally asked her, “Nicole, do you want to go home?” She looked at me and whispered flatly, “More than anything.” I stood up took her hand, and headed out into the streets of Brooklyn. I was so spun out I wasn't sure where I was going but I knew it wasn't sitting alone at that table for a second longer. I found the train and platform, no wallet, but I had a metrocard in the back of my phone, golden. The forty minutes home must have felt like hell because like most bad things my brain has put it to the very back of my mind. I only remember tripping over curbs and flinching at my own reflection. Back in CT, we got in my car and I drove with one hand on the wheel, one hand grasped by Nicole, broken nails, wood chips in all. All of the windows down. When we got to her place, she kissed me and said, “I’m so sorry.” I told her it was all good and how I just wish I had made moves earlier.

***

When I got home, I took a scalding shower. I wiped the steam off the mirror when I got out and I looked at myself. I was relieved when I saw it was me and not the unfamiliar face that made me flinch. I thought of all the people I had seen and knew I would never be like them. As I went to grab my phone from my pants, I found the untouched bag of K. I emptied the bag of crystals on my desk, crushed them up under a bill and snorted a line. I don't know if I just wanted it to be gone or if I wanted to search for something in that in-between of consciousness and the physical world. Something that Nicole saw and liked, maybe if could understand it. I hopped on my bed and let my head rest on my pillows as the drug kicked in. I smiled and watched the walls dance towards me. I closed my eyes and took in the warmth as my body drifted ever deeper from my mind. Finally, safe at home.

Thumping

By Alexander Krinsky

We sat there on the verge of it all. Me and Pat. My best friend and I his, though he always mentioned how Chris and Nate were too. Truly a good dude. We were posted on a hill just the two of us though thousands were walking around. Mostly New York kids trying to see EDM. Not my scene anymore, though I've discovered some very cool music through it. Composing computer noises, has come a long way, sound systems too.

The two of us blissfully separate from a giant dance party of drugs and love and some shit called plur. We were just talking.

My eyes were closed and despite the high intensity environment the LSD had become quite comfortable. I was loose; my head slacked back, eyes closed.

"Know what would be nice?" I asked Pat as I saw my girlfriends smile born in my mind. I missed her.

"What Krinsk?" He asked in his true voice's most genuine tone.

I saw her sweet brown eyes flicker a glance, "If our girls were here," I said, as I remembered her dancing in my room. How she drank a bottle of wine with a twist off top, in her spandex leggings, her back dimples right at eye level. Except then, the way I saw it then she was light.

I opened my eyes and saw Pat was leaned back too, eyes closed, looking towards his own personal sky. "True," he said and grinned.

A Laugh While Dying

by Alexander Krinsky

I think about dying everyday. I love the idea, even though it scares me. It just makes everything seem so simple. We live in this hyperactive, anxious society, but thinking about how I never existed before and someday I wont exist ever again, helps center my mind. The feed back, the in-between, the gray area, the universe, the void – whatever you want to call it – I stare into it, I am it. This way of being, the effortful awareness of nothingness and everything, makes me laugh.

When I was 17 and my father just turned 60 we visited an old woman name Dale. When my father met her she was an artist living in Manhattan. He was 40 and my mother was pregnant with my older brother. Dale lived in a building downtown filled with artists, happily married to her husband Mario – an extremely well known and influential oil painter. Dale was the head of the watercolor society back then, and my father would take her out to lunch as his paychecks and gut got fatter from advancing as a lawyer. Both of my dad’s parents died, I never met them but I would bet he found some parallelism in Dale’s company. After Mario died and Dale’s once graceful hands became wrinkled and stiff she moved out of the city to a town in western Massachusetts called Shelburne Falls. She knew she needed to be closer to her beloved children and the nature she had so expertly expressed through color, as its finality came ever closer. When I asked my father why we were going to see some random old women he assured me it was because there was no doubt she would give him the best farm raised turkey eggs I’d ever had. I realized now it’s because he wanted to see where he would be twenty years.

We pulled down a dusty rural road in my dad’s white 911 Porsche, when I stepped out I noticed the red clay from the road splattered the car’s side panels – a canvas. Dale lived in an old barn now that had to be extended over the years it had been inhabited by her growing family. Each renovated section had its own paint color and style – a collage. When engine of the car turned off I heard barking from the home.

An old grey pit bull from behind a closed screen door stared me down. My heart dropped when I saw the stocky old women – grey hair pinned up with eyes so bright and sharp for a moment the barking went silent in my mind. She opened the door and the dog bolted towards us viciously barking. I feared for my father as it rapidly approached him. My Dad was calm and the pup jumped up and greeted him lovingly – I, still untrusting and fearful didn’t show any love, he growled at me as I walked by him, I think because I was too young. My father's eyes lit up as Dale slowly walked down the stone steps from the front door of their rural home, and greeted him with what looked like familiar and motherly affection.

“Andy you’re so old now, you look great,” said Dale. I was taken aback by her candor. But she was right, my father had lost a lot of weight and was looking better than ever. Growing up I had never been able to reach my arms around him for a hug but now I could and his wise eyes finally matched his face. He was beaming with the joy of a young man when she said that, but I noticed something in the way he looked at Dale when she hugged me and her back was turned to him.

“You’re so handsome! You look much more like your mother,” Dale said to me, “but you have your fathers smile, very lucky boy.”

Dale took my hand and led me to see the turkeys while her daughter’s husband a giant of a man offered my father a cup of home-brewed coffee. I hate birds, fucking dinosaurs, but I pretended to like them. I felt out of place, I felt like I was dragged there, but didn’t care much. My dad does so much for me and this was a small thing I could do for him, but looking back I was wrong. We were in that place for me just as much as we were for my dad. Because I am my dad. I’m the twinkle in his eye that screamed let me keep existing and my sons and/or daughters will be him and me, as well. I once had a high school biology class and the first day my professor said, “welcome to class, you're all here today because every ancestor you ever had from the beginning of time managed to reproduce before they died, congratulations.” I liked that professor.

The old woman took me up to a separate stone building filled with old prints and drawings both her’s and Mario’s. Some were of flowers delicate and white, some of buildings in the city complex and busy, the most beautiful was a portrait of Dale as young woman sketched in charcoal by Mario. He was able to capture the brightness in her eyes despite the dark medium. My father came up the old wooden stairs and told Dale he was taking her to her favorite place to eat. Dale sat shotgun and made fun of my dad’s car, “What Andy? Are you having a midlife crisis or something?” He was. My dad before the Porsche, always drove old hoopties. He had this old white Mercury my brother and I called the Pimpmobile, it had the most comfortable seats. When I get stressed out I try to remember this day I was in that car – my body sprawled out on the puffy suede seats, my head resting on the padded arm rest as I waited for him to come back from inside a bank or something. Warm spring rain drops landed on my face and neck one by one and I stayed motionless waiting until there wasn't a spot untouched. The 911 never gave me that feeling, and when my dad offers to let me drive it I say no. I never felt like I deserved to and I still haven’t, besides I don’t want to fuck it up.

The town resided pretty far from the barn, small and beautiful. An old trolly path turned walking bridge covered in flowers welcomed the towns people to mom and pop shops, bookstores, a coffee spot, and the countries oldest bowling alley. Glacial potholes of the Deerfield River stuck me the most. These little tiny rocks get caught in currents and grind away at the soft stone beneath them. Over time giant holes are made filled with little rocks that just kept grinding away. We sat at a restaurant that overlooked the bridge. I sat with my back to it and faced my father and Dale. I wanted them to see the flowers and the orange and gold sky over head. I wanted her to see the brilliant colors that reminded me of her work. Dale ordered a sandwich and I saw pain in my father’s face as her hands shook when she lifted it. He excused himself and went to the bathroom. We sat in silence for a second, Dale and I. I looked across at her from the table and she looked back at me, it was really quiet. I could tell she had met so many people, and had seen so much that I was just a speck to her. Yet, extremely important as my fathers son. I felt inclined to ask her her something and what felt like less than a moment after feeling that way, I did.

“What’s the most important thing in life?”

She smiled at me, like I was Mario, like I was my father, like I was Alexander Henry Krinsky.

“Having a good sense of humor.”

She said it so simply and plainly, yet, I felt deep meaning came from how quickly and frank her response was. Dumbfounded and almost cheated at first, I wondered how could that be the most important thing in life? But then it hit me. When my father’s brother killed himself I laughed in confusion, I was twelve. When that man’s wife, my aunt, died last year, I laughed then too. When his son, my cousin, killed himself on the most beautiful day of the summer and I became the youngest member of my family, I laughed and cried until there were no more tears and then I laughed some more – they don’t run out. Dale in her life must have had so many of those moments but was still able to look at me, with affection and greet my father with love, to wake up each day as a widow and see beauty. I realized, if we didn’t have laughter we wouldn't be able to react to a lot of things in life. I’m still not really sure if that fact is really funny or really scary. I feel that way with everything of real substance in this life, the connection between fear and humor. Because things just are, a lot of the times we don't get them, yet we react, it’s evolutionary – were a part of it. The way I get by and connect to it day to day is through breathing. I think about how my breathing is going happen no matter what, and if I pay attention to what it is happening and let it do its thing my breath becomes stronger and deeper. I feel more connected. It’s the same with laughing, and living, and being, and eventually dying. I know I won’t have any say in the matter but if I’m lucky my last breath will be for a deep full bodied laugh, if that happens I know my loves don't need to worry about running out of how to respond, you can run out of tears but not out of laughs baby.

I SHOULD PREFACE THIS COLLECTION OF POEMS WITH A LITTLE BACKGROUND. I’M TYPE OF PERSON WHO AVOIDS THE WORD SHOULD AS A GENERAL RULE, SO THE SHOULD IN THE PREVIOUS SENTENCE, TO ME, HOLDS WEIGHT. IT’S SACRED SHOULD, A SHOULD THAT I’M CHOOSING TO MAKE AN IS. AND IT IS THE CORE OF THAT CHOICE THAT ALL THESE WORDS, LINES, MUSINGS AND CHOICES THAT EITHER CAME BEFORE THEM, AFTER THEM OR IN THE MOMENT ARE THE SAME, SHOULD BE-S ON PAPER THAT HOPE FULLY BY THE TIME I COME BACK TO THIS INTRODUCTORY PARAGRAPH AND EDIT IT WILL BE ARES.

Apathy

Apathy (?)

When I close my eyes I feel fine.

I breathe deeply, I don’t care.

A ring on your finger

Her heart in the palm of my hand

Fragility.

When the glass shatters

We’ll have to walk over it

But like through doorframes

I’ll stay there with you.

I’ll stand there while I carry you in my arms.

As we walk through

Blood from my feet and the glass shall mix - pink

As time passes – all the joyous time – we’ll crush it as we dance

Until it is a fine beautiful sand

The softest the world has ever known.

TEXT

Types, Deletes

I want to live in a world where I dont have to delete your messages.

Or rather a life where I can keep them. I know how you do.
You see them as scripture.

As monument and masterpiece
But with things how they are.
I cant become any hammer be it michelangelo or Laszlo’s.

Still our love is god.
Forgive me for seeking a tool. I am but a fool.

A man. At least until you keep me.

——————

You can try to crush infinity

You can shrink it into a symbol

A snake eating itself

Around and around we go

You want to get off this ride

Tired of missing golden rings

Sorry love no one is tending, at least right now

But so long as you go around and around its free

You can try to crush infinity

You can conceptualize it with pi

Swallow the sun or be blinded

God is flow.

How do you make love stay? Stop trying to make love stay.

——————

I’ll win you back.

Because you’ve become unattainable

Because you hate me.

I wronged you so deeply

Cheater, liar, creep

But you stood by me for so long

What does that say about you.

That you’re blind or just kind?

What if I win you back.

Will I respect you?

Will I run like I did in the first place?

I’ve never been worth the time

A fractured and confused heart

Grieving, dying, laughing

but still dancing

I thought my heart wore a crown but truly

It just is wrapped by a viper

——————

In a bar of fiction, it’s all stitched together.

Lights still up from Christmas, singing joy

Wood panels meet plaster,

Neither know where one ends or the other begins

A tapestry of a unicorn, fenced in from your grandmothers wall and now here

A disco ball spins above, lines of white light across the room,

Lipstick waits on a mirror, for someone big enough, for someone courageous, not me.

Mirrors reflect one another,

Ghosts are captured between in their endless hallway

Stitches, reflected, endless

In a bar of fiction, the floor is wood ragged and the ceiling is tin, ornate

The staff bickers but are beautiful in their tailspin tall tale,

Listen to my soul, demand so on stage,

Listen to my heart.

Later on a man is his standing with a bass with a carved face

They’ll both stare at you.

Why havent you started your story yet?

They ask too much.
——————

I’ve learned to weave blankets of silver linings

They grant me shelter under endless skies

I walk with them upon my shoulders

I tie them to hold my belongings —so I am ready to ride

Like a fool I walk on the same pier

where you once held my hand

The waters still and golden

I think only we understand - what its like to be so..

I don’t know the word

don’t think I’m supposed to

May be thats it

I’m supposed to be supposed to you.

Fallacy so pathetic i’m drenched-in

Bottled lightning can we share

I smile why tears fall but you cant tell they’re there

Im a man of constant care — or in need of constant care

I’ve learned to weave blankets out of silver linings

My hands are busy and it keeps my minds at ease

But forever I’ll dream of the silk

That you laid beneath my feet.