The Fire


Our love is caught in the self-extinguishing fire
Yet still a story begins to take form,
regardless of my debt to those lost in the mire.

My breath begins to move words and inspires
my song and verse towards your heart’s storm;
Our love is caught in the self-extinguishing fire.

Despite the…

Return from Outside the City

As I carefully remove each and every poem I’ve ever written on this site - I report to you all from outside the city. Photographs I’ve just rebloggged from 1944-1945 of that beautiful monstrosity I call home - I am no longer there and have not been here, on tumblr, for a while now. 

This site will continue to be my personal haven for art, musings, quotes, perhaps some poetry and prose - But I have left so that I may dedicate myself wholly to the act of writing. I’ll also report on my new adventures here in San Antonio, Texas - a place not yet become. I love those types of places - so much fervor and grit. 

New York became too glossy for me, and so I’ve left for now. I hope you all continue to lead the wonderful lives you’ve chosen, and I will continue to share mine with you. 


Brett Weston.

Exhibition: City of Abstractions: Brett Weston in New York, 1944-45 at 1285 Avenue of the Americas Art Gallery, New York.


Austin Osman SpareThe beliefs we make are the bestfor us, whatever their truth.Any belief is sanctified by thebelieving, and justified by results.


Austin Osman Spare

The beliefs we make are the best
for us, whatever their truth.
Any belief is sanctified by the
believing, and justified by results.


(vía courier5)



Amazing altered photographs by Chinese artist Yao Lu. We found Yao’s work via the website io9 and they wrote about his work, “Lu takes photographs of Chinese landfills covered in green protective netting and then digitally adds the sort of imagery we’d expect to see in a classic watercolor landscape: mist, trees, waterfalls, and the occasional building dotting the hills of trash. It’s a clever way to use photo manipulation to convey his message about the natural world and how it is in danger of being displaced by the castoffs of urbanization.”

(vía lustik)


So many poems begin where theyshould end, and never end.Mine never end, they run onbook after book, complainingto the moon that heaven is wrongor dull, no place at all to be.I believe all this. I believethat ducks take wing onlyin stories and then to returnthe gift of flight to the winds.If you knew how I came to beseven years old and how thickand blond my hair was, fallingabout my shoulders like the leavesof the slender eucalyptusthat now blesses my drivewayand shades my pale blue Falcon,if you could see me pullingwagon loads of stones acrossthe tufted fields and placingthem to build myself and my brothera humped mound of earth whereflowers might rise as from a grave,you might understand the last springbefore war turned toward our houseand entered before dawn, a palestranger that hovered over each bedand touched the soft, unguarded facesleaving bruises so faintyears would pass before they darkenedand finally burned.—Philip Levine, from “A Poem With No Ending”Art Credit Louise Bourgeois. Untitled, 2005, Fabric, 45.7 x 55.8 cm / 18 x 22 in


So many poems begin where they
should end, and never end.
Mine never end, they run on
book after book, complaining
to the moon that heaven is wrong
or dull, no place at all to be.
I believe all this. I believe
that ducks take wing only
in stories and then to return
the gift of flight to the winds.
If you knew how I came to be
seven years old and how thick
and blond my hair was, falling
about my shoulders like the leaves
of the slender eucalyptus
that now blesses my driveway
and shades my pale blue Falcon,
if you could see me pulling
wagon loads of stones across
the tufted fields and placing
them to build myself and my brother
a humped mound of earth where
flowers might rise as from a grave,
you might understand the last spring
before war turned toward our house
and entered before dawn, a pale
stranger that hovered over each bed
and touched the soft, unguarded faces
leaving bruises so faint
years would pass before they darkened
and finally burned.

Philip Levine, from “A Poem With No Ending”
Art Credit Louise Bourgeois. Untitled, 2005, Fabric, 45.7 x 55.8 cm / 18 x 22 in

fuck yeah dirty verses: 500 Days of Art


We’re born out of candyland and cookies,
after our mothers become determined that
this batch will be better. Be careful eyes and ears,
what you allow in. We siphon the darkness
from the beginning, often hiding from the light.
We grow up on lunch sack poetry, never…

(Fuente: lilysofthefield)



New York Bred Kevin Amato, currently lives in New York City’s South Bronx. He works as a commercial & Fine Art Photographer. A graduate of The School of Visual Arts, Amato’s work has been published & exhibited in the U.S. , Europe & Asia.  Clients include; Coca Cola, Reebok, Nike, Opening Ceremony, Air Jamaica & Samsung to name a few.

Editorial clients include; Complex, Dazed + Confused, Flaunt, The Guardian, Out, Spin, G.Q. , The Advocate, Interview, Dust, Wonderland, Hero, Vibe, The Source, Tetu, Tokion & Elle among others.