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it still angers me that trc didn’t take place over the course of a full year. we are told at the beginning of trb that gansey will die between this st marks eve and next. this seems to imply the series will be bookended by st marks, and that perhaps the climactic foretold death will take place as they approach the next spring with a building sense of doom and inevitability. this is one of the few places where i actually remember my thoughts during the first time i read the series, and i clearly remember assuming that would be the case. it’s literally a cycle. ok, maybe we could’ve done one season per book, with book 4 approaching the end of winter/early spring when st marks occurs. it seems like we are on the right track- book 1 occurs over the spring, book 2 the summer. but then book 3 and 4 are both just the fall??? the symbolism couldve been there man. bllb couldve had all these autumn metaphors about the border between life (first half of the series, spring/summer) and death (gansey’s, winter). and trk couldve been like winter, but late- we get to see the leaves start to bud again. it’s a fucking cycle man. i have been thinking about this since 2016.
Homeless and unemployed men, guests of Urbain Ledoux, aka "Mr. Zero," enjoy a Christmas Day meal of mulligan stew at his haven for the needy called "The Tub," at 33 St. Mark's Place in 1931. The stew, made of turkey, chicken, goose and squab, was enjoyed by nearly 5,000 guests.
«St. Marks Place, 1982 - that amazing wall between 1st and 2nd Ave. where the layers of posters were so thick they would fall off in chunks! A wonderful time and place.
I read my poem, “Venus of Abyssal Seas”, at Village Works bookstore on Saturday night. 📖🌊🖤 It was so lovely to read my self-wedding poem at such a charming bookstore. 📚🥀 Thank you so much for hosting this reading, Village Works. 💖 Everyone’s poetry was awesome! 🔥🔥🔥
Read “Venus of Abyssal Seas” at Quail Bell Magazine. 💀
515 Madison Avenue
door to heaven? portal
stopped realities and eternal licentiousness
or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness
your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables
swinging from the myth of ascending
I would join
or declining the challenge of racial attractions
they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends)
while everywhere love is breathing draftily
like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th
the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s
o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland
where is the summit where all aims are clear
the pin-point light upon a fear of lust
as agony’s needlework grows up around the unicorn
and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work
when I see Gianni I know he’s thinking of John Ericson
playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor
taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley
and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire
and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue
a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle
multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth
Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building
I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue
and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment
“where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night
not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs”
no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it”
perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work
a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods
you were there always and you know all about these things
as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes
it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet
you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or
Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid
as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar
that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue
where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light
I have always wanted to be near it
though the day is long (and I don’t mean Madison Avenue)
lying in a hammock on St. Mark’s Place sorting my poems
in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island
they are coming and we holy ones must go
is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically
belong to the enormous bliss of American death