Man on Wire:

I love how he calls it his tower. I have a difficult time believing in any conception of ownership but if there was ever a time where proprietorship was real it would be this. Because I highly doubt the executive Port Authority of NY, legal owner of the Twin Towers really expends much time and passion into just thinking about the towers he “owned”, whereas I’d bet Petit thinks of it often. There could be a claim for the artistic ownership being real, as in the directors and architects of the towers. But with art, it seems to often be the piece that defines and overshadows the artist (in this case literally), whereas Philippe cast his shadow on the building. If one were to juxtapose the architect to the tower, I would guess that it would be the tower that really makes an impression. But with this tightrope walker, despite the fact that there is a massive monument to human achievement next to him, it seems like the eye is ever drawn to the tiny blip that is him, an even greater human achievement. Because where there were monetary motivations for the other “owners”, the only connection the walker has is pure unbridled dreams and passions. When these towers fell, the artist lost his work, the executives lost their investments. But Philippe Petit’s achievement still stands; he owned that tower. For it is not a creation or a purchase which truly makes ownership, but a pure emotional connection and actualization of dreams like this.


“Snow,” the moon insisted (1)

But the rain came      O

“Well, no blame to be placed,” the moon thought, “simply a force of nature.”

Azure lands speckled the ground like swollen glands, reprimanding the sky for its clichéd choice.

“Least it’s moist”

No voice for the voiceless

Words often spoken, yet undressed

Salads spring from greener things but a grey demeanor means no sausage for wienter.

A house made of splintered boards.

It was like traffic spikes for youthful sock sliders, and we were tired of it.

The higher the air pressure, the harder to hear the cries, right next to you.       

I wish for a golden life, but absolutely a few flecks will do.


Insist on a better tomorrow, despite having pissed yourself today.

Insist on a sweater tomorrow, even when your last lamb is bare of all wool.

The tools of your desire will ensure it

will be.


Insist on being the best COD player in a 400 mile radius, though now you’re the fucking worst.

Insist on being one of millions born at birth on some particular day, even if they got the month wrong.     

You’re special regardless.   


You’re the biggest fan of Downton Abbey, declare it so.

Today your foreskin’s looking flabby, let it go.

Everything here to stop you can’t hold a candlelit LED to what you are / will be.


Insist you’re arty, even when Will’s being me(a)n.

Insist on every goodbye meaning something, even though there were like ten today and many more lined up in time.

Time tells us it doesn’t have to be so hard, that shaken, stirred and scarred we still go on to spit bars or see stars or at least park cars at theaters showing the latest one, making it

all worth it all over again.


1. Martin, George R. R. A Dance With Dragons. New York: Bantam, 2011. 51. Print.