Chelsea Hotel #3

   We Are Ugly But We Have the Music.

   This is our title, our collective moniker, our flagless flag, denominating no allegiances, no cultural attachments, no geo-political persuasions. None of that. We dwell underground, or to be more accurate, the underground lives inside us, and our voices have taken on the mineral timbre, metallic resin, diamond dust dreams, and whetted clay lips of the underground swelling and rising.

   Many do not view us. We are not pleasingly viewable, not well-documented, not registered for countless likes or repeated downloads. We Are Ugly But We Have the Music.

   We gather under the auspices of this tagged birth and nomenclature, and beneath us the earth is always at the mercy of shifting tectonic plates. Protean are our takes. And we play, we play on.

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Cinema

   If cinema is a tomb, then let us die watching. The angel over my shoulder is hunched, opaque, morphing.

   None of us ever leave behind the darkened theater. We are here, always. Sanctuary, haven, enclave, respite, sitting tight and homey with reels of flickering filmstrips to keep us warm hazy company. We remain here, happy slaves and obedient imps to the dance between light and shadow. We don’t care what films are pimped out to us. Every genre becomes our appetite.

   Cinemanesthasized. That is us, what we have become. A bewitching trance in which we fondle and romance our tethered wrecks and deepest secret selves.

   Note: It is no coincidence that tomb and womb are so close to one another, phonetic cousins kissing in the dark.  

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Titanic

   If there were two, then let us say there were two. The two danced on the time-haunted deck of the Titanic, they called it the Titanic because they understood the floor beneath their feet was not to be trusted, nor the worldscape, which was always at the mercy of shifting tectonic plates. Here today, gone tomorrow. Gone tomorrow, here today.

   She, one of the two, lowered herself upon the creak-wooden floor and blew him. She rose up, musky penile skinflakes clinging to her lips, and he, the other of the two, lowered down and blew her. They swapped out organs liberally, as they saw fit, they were measurably reciprocal in their take and give.

   They blew each other back and forth seesaw-style because they loved each other, because wind was their mentor and silence their grace, because they desired to become immaculately vulgar, they blew each other because the fate of every Titanic was inescapable, they blew each other because they were two.

   There might have been others. They didn’t see them. She said she was a mother once, possibly twice. He said he played a child at least a thousand times. Every generation slips a knot. The blue want of the world was hunger impossible, or desperate flights from hunger impossible.

   He wet the tip of his finger and plugged it inside his ear, conceiving of ear as he did this, imagining it a bright clay appendage, a tender mollusk. She removed her ear and replaced it with wax candy lips, a Cubist invention of her own volition. They, the two, devoured each other historically, simultaneously.

   The world had gone and stayed unimaginably gone. They were two, and they were. It was enough. The most concise and satisfying math equation ever. To be there and to be gone. To be simultaneous and to absent. They found all this out by dreaming through and through. I mean dreaming that went all the way through, no turning back.

   Imagine, if you will, two tiny O-shaped mouths like goldfish puckers, suckers for absorption, and therein lies the gremlins, mysteries and vast greening ponderances of life.

   Once upon a time…

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Pinafore

   Let’s start with the photo, the comic melodrama in which you, perfectly staged, are wearing a blue pinafore dress, your dark hair gagged in pigtails, mouth heavily lipsticked, cheeks cherubically rouged, your eyes two flashing ovals of abyss-pooling licorice, sweat in silvery beads rolling down your skirted legs, collecting in the spaded dimples of knee-blades, your hands a pair of static birds tied down, mouth bound, and hovering above you the flashback villain of old, caped in a black shawl, top hat tilted rakishly, oil-slicked handlebar mustache, the villain greedily rubbing his sweat-greased palms together, his entire existence a rapacious glisten, and his primary ambition in life has been reduced to singular malice, to see you run over by the locomotive that will come thundering down the tracks any minute now, any minute … once this happens, he will, he believes, retire from the annals of villainy and adopt a well-respected position that ensconces him into creased folds of society, society as he sees it, an origami lawn neatly ordered, and here comes the train now, you scream as loud as you can (yet your voice has been rendered dead and screamless by the silent film predicament you find yourself in) and screamless you are run over by the train, THE END flashes in block letters on the black curtain of my closed eyes, my longing eyes, I wish I could mourn this death for a longer time, but this is only the first with many more to come.

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No One Dreams in Color

Coming April 2026 from Unsolicited Press.

Synopsis:
Man Vanishes Without a Trace. This, the dramatic headline which stirs Andrew DiBenedetto’s curiosity, and initiates a life-changing course. The vanished man is Paul Kirby, whose nine-minute film, Wendigo—the only film Kirby ever made—was one of Andrew’s sacred cinematic totems. Compelled to visit Nine Peaks, the remote New Mexico town which had become Kirby’s adopted home, Andrew will discover that Kirby was one, among many, who have mysteriously vanished, and that Nine Peaks is, as claimed by one of its locals: an anomaly wrapped inside an anachronism and swallowed by a riddle. Andrew’s story quickly and irrevocably becomes entwined with the stories of others: Ali, a thirteen-year-old loner, comic book buff, and Beastie Boys fanatic, who is once again being tormented by werewolves; her mother, Callie, Paul’s lover, who has started working at the enigmatic Dream Bank; and Mack, the cameraman, who shot Wendigo with Paul up in the mountains. When the borders and barriers between dreams, memory, fiction and reality begin to dissolve, Andrew and company must navigate the shifting and unstable narratives of a weblike paradigm. Equal parts psychic noir and existential montage, No One Dreams in Color explores the mutable nature of time, identity and loss.

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Net Worth

   Memory slips through one’s fingers, an aggrieved net unable to hold sea or time. Everything floats by and through as intangible, ephemeral.

   How to achieve fluency and accuracy of memory, of memory loss? I do not know.

   It could begin like this: There were four of us boys. We were all part of the same family, but also we weren’t.

   This speaks volumes about the subjective experience of family members curating their own realities, individually, within a shared network. In other words: we were all there together, but also we were there separately. Dad hitting Mom with the belt registered a different impact and separate internalized reality for each one of the brothers. In this respect, memory can never be singular. It always splinters, and in splintering it proliferates. Memory is a hutch for rabbit orgies, destined for multiples, never singularity.

   Each of us curates our own reality.

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Shard

In a house of mirrors, every reflection is an indirect representation of an illusion, as misperceived recognition of the source.

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Screen Test

Memory. How we amass and compile what equates to an archival collection of footage which constitutes an identity, a life … in private screening rooms, we view ourselves, scenes, episodes, and settle ourselves into what comprises identity. Yet there is a persistent illusion at play, a dogged insistence that what we’re seeing reflected back to ourselves is solid and dependable as a narrative, is fixed. This is not true.

   Consider: You have access to the content, to the archives. Images and stories cinematically reflecting parts of your life back to you no longer appear on the screen. The scenes are void of content. You sit and stare and grow terribly anxious waiting for something to appear which will serve as orientation. It doesn’t come. Or it comes irregularly, sporadically. Or the pictures cut out intermittently, offering a fragmented viewing experience. Or the screens do fill up with images, but none of them are recognizable: glyphs coded through cataracts.

   This is when identity is threatened, when red alert mode sets in—You are not who you think you are. Who you thought you were. No compass, no orientation. People, in real life, who are meant to serve and fulfill as points of orientation, as figures that can stabilize your identity, no longer enact those roles. They are just people. Everything had been connected by the tenuous threads of story, by fragile cinema. If those are gone, you are rudderless and adrift in your own life. And can you even call it your own life anymore? Isn’t it just life, life itself as it courses through you, a conduit, a conductor, an avatar void of signature?

   Who are we when the stories and cinema disappear, fade, when they are no longer accessible? Who were we to begin with? Existential dress-up comes to a close. Claims are severed. Relations become background  noise, a white din or remote humming. In our lives, we are dreamwalkers punctuated by reveries and line-breaks.  

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Straight Out of Toronto

My interview on All My Books, a podcast aired on MET Radio (Toronto Metrpolitan University) is now streaming. It was fun getting to discuss creative process, indie publishing, inspiration and artistic influences, and I had an opportunity to read an excerpt from my new novel, The Last Furies, on the air.

https://www.metradio.ca/show/all-my-books/

(the interview starts about 30 minutes into the program, and is listed under: Wednesday, November 12)

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Metrics

Dust is time’s response to dreaming.

Dreams–desolate, unmade, spectral—wafting as winds carry out the ceremonial twitch of pallbearing.

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