"All Eyes on You." Pencil on paper. 22 June 2018.

"Plugged In," by Christopher P. Gazeent. 4 Feb. 2018. Pencil on paper.

“Wake Up!” by Christopher P. Gazeent. 20 Aug. 2017. Pencil on paper.

My reading at the Howland Cultural Center, in Beacon NY. 12 May 2017. Courtesy of Hayden Wayne.

Three poems

Summer For Now The world sheds its snakeskin And so do I molt in imitation, Welcoming the sugar scented spring Emerging from the chilly blanket of winter. The poetry of the rain spatters on the eaves Of the one-story country house. I pen an epistle consisting of nothing but exclamation marks, Whom to send it to I do not know. Now convinced that there is scripture in the graffiti, I gaze upward to glimpse hope walking a tightrope Between skyscrapers. There’s a new kind of chaos sprouting out of the tendrils, A cement mixer churning in one’s gut As all the possibilities of a new summer erupt Like a trinitrotoluene detonation. I yank the dumbwaiter up through its shaft So that it may deliver at the top an understanding Of the impossibility of beauty that perpetually remains out of reach, Like waiting at the curb for the taxi that will never come. The only consolation to be found is that the summer Shall never remain stuck in the spider’s web of what might have been, At least until the winter burgles all happiness again. For now we must enjoy this seasonal cameo. For now. Paint (for Ben) Cerebral demiurge, creator of worlds within minds, You must stand with me to judgment day and beyond So that we may transcend petty disenchantment And with subterranean clairvoyance Track the subways across boroughs On our way to visit a sage with eyes sculpted by wisdom, And the power to refute the ostensible tragedy of death. These are words out of the spiritual basement, The undercarriage of the soul, Words to match the lines of paint that you daub Upon the canvas of understanding. In the contours of those brush strokes Are hidden the metaphysical gems Of a life lived in silhouettes of hills and valleys. Paint me a masterpiece on the back of a catalog card, Express with colors the passion of the tunnels That connect land masses where busboys abide. Wait for me in your apartment. Once I have slain the dragon who governs us With silver sword glinting in the midnight sun, I will join you for a meeting of artisans And my words will dissolve in your paint And the product will free a generation From the whips and chains of the powers Who would silence forever the telephone Connecting the hand to the heart. The Real Days (The Scream) To subdue the perpetual scream oscillating through my skull, Reaching the cochleas which interpret existential dread And convert it into that screech which peals throughout my being; To make it through these fake nights of empyreal defeat And reach the real days when I will transmute birdsong into bard song, An alchemy to bring about the renaissance of the soul; To conquer the distance that separates profound ambition From the nocturnal city that will one day play host to its bodily encasement: These are my timid goals as I play the part of tragic hero Who in dramatic irony is unaware that his companion will die before morning. The real days will come, but not before I have cleared one thousand trials, Not before I exterminate the scream once and for all.

TDA

Travis d'Arnaud? More like Travis d'Amnyes!

This is comedic gold. I feel a little sorry for the guy, but I laughed out loud when his voice cracked.

What a way to start the season! I thought Syndergaard's changeup was particularly good in this game in a way I had not seen last season. Then Duda gets the big knock off a lefty. Great signs! I can't wait for tomorrow night's game!

A poem

Invisible Tears The pungent brackish taste of invisible tears Settles on the tongues of the masses. Send thought through a wood chipper, Destroy philosophy with a chainsaw, And as the treeline speeds by too fast You will see what has become of me. When the television delivers armageddon Lullabies must crash like precious china Upon the kitchen floor. Life and death cycle as summer and winter And when Mother Earth’s womb is barren The cockroaches will be the only creatures Who can truly claim to be free. Dizzy with altitude I continue on the longest journey, Presented with new hurdles Every time I see the Promised Land. To ascend the staircase to a kind of geotic heaven We must first trudge through the muds of Hades. I gaze at the mob with my atomic eyes: It is what I do not see that makes them travelers, What cranks their motors, what sparks their ignitions, What causes a commotion in their bile. When I slink behind the bookshelf, Please imagine me reading; Do not entertain the thought that I might have disappeared.

Two new poems

Joyride The war is over without a victor. Stuck in the blind spot of a semipermanent As I joyride in pursuit of mechanical prey, Instinct is my only responsibility, Vocation not a matter of passion But life still a puzzle without any clues. I am very vincible with fur nor scales to cover my flesh, Only two tons of metal scaffolding That are fragile as talc when travelling at seventy miles an hour. The Collapsing Library Can knowledge really triumph over ignorance? The last librarian scurries around her domain, Shelving books to atone for her first scion, Lost at twenty-seven years to suburban venin, Cut off from his tree with the hacksaw of sorrow. She publishes materials to reach out to xenoglots Unaware of the grammatical mistakes Slithering through the foreign lexicon. The community room is empty save for two plants That no longer cry out for water, And the old building creaks and cracks As it threatens to collapse into the brook. I stand in the old farm road and watch. Yes, this is the end; no longer will patrons peruse the books From whose timeworn, yellowed pages The scent of ancient intellect wafts; Never again will researchers examine documents To put together biographies of men Who wore tweed jackets and smoked Cuban cigars. Now information exists only in the minds of lonely experts Who wander mountains and plains and fields, Doing all they can to salvage a world That is falling apart at its seams And whose tape has been erased by the grand magnet That is kept in the custody of a wayward God.

A new poem

A Severe Lack of Spiritual Creativity I. The Year of the Rooster Time is a cat scratching at the bedroom door, Yowling for attention. If only we could understand what it’s so desperately trying to tell us But its mews and meows are incomprehensible. Memories grow distant Like a purple mountain in the rear view mirror. Witchcraft is at least novel, Unlike allegiance to a trinity of abstruse mythoi. Classical religion is the ultimate in conservative rhetoric, Ideas that remain unchanged and unchallenged for millennia. To understand the world through human terms is noble, But I prefer the esoterica of alternative gospel, Deaf to every word so you must get my attention By pointing and gesturing. The chanticleer crows to usher in the new year And the sound reverberates through the valley. II. Emergency Exit Transparent sleep solves banal emotion. Dreams are woven into quilts To cover slumbering children Whose minds power the world like windmills. I have blasphemed against the skyline By growing old and withering Like a flower petal at summer’s end. I rehearse every night for death, The action cutting every once in awhile For the director to clarify stage directions. Menial labor provides a slave wage to the workers Who wear yellow jackets and clear the cruel morning From the scape of consciousness So that the day may break above the foothills And with its sun light up the possibility of a happy future. III. Sensations I have been humiliated by memory. Bibliothecaries crowd the subway Suitcases full of books in hand, Delivering sensational speeches to the homeless, Rallying the support of the disenfranchised masses. We are guilty of misprision of felony against fairy tales And oblivion is our sentence, nay, our reward. These are the red roses, the casualties of life As what was once iron will is snapped like a paper clip. The retinas are flooded with light And the cochleas barraged by sound And I wish nothing more than to be alone in a dark, silent room, Where I can contemplate the minutiae Of a life lived in shadow.

"Alter Ego," by Christopher P. Gazeent. 17 Feb. 2017. Pencil on paper.

Roster/Opening Day lineup

With the resignings of Salas and Blevins yesterday, I am now ready to publish my anticipated 25-man roster and opening day lineup for the 2017 New York Mets. Outfield Yoenis Céspedes Curtis Granderson Jay Bruce Juan Lagares Michael Conforto Infield David Wright Asdrúbal Cabrera Neil Walker Lucas Duda Wilmer Flores José Reyes Catchers Travis d'Arnaud René Rivera Starting Pitchers Noah Syndergaard Jacob deGrom Matt Harvey Steven Matz Robert Gsellman Bullpen Addison Reed Fernando Salas Jerry Blevins Hansel Robles Zack Wheeler Josh Edgin Erik Goeddel* *To be replaced by Jeurys Familia, after he serves his suspension. 3 April 2017 1. Curtis Granderson, CF 2. David Wright, 3B 3. Yoenis Céspedes, LF 4. Jay Bruce, RF 5. Asdrúbal Cabrera, SS 6. Neil Walker, 2B 7. Lucas Duda, 1B 8. René Rivera, C 9. Noah Syndergaard, P Note: this is my lineup without Reyes. No doubt they will try to get him in there as often as they can. Of course, when he plays he will be leading off.

You know what, I'm okay with this. Bruce is a streaky player, and if he can stay hot enough of the time in 2017 he could be a great asset. It's worth noting that, barring injury, the Mets will have FIVE players on their Opening Day roster who have hit 30 home runs in a season: Wright, Duda, Céspedes, Granderson and Bruce. How many teams can say that? We saw a lot of balls flying over the wall last year. If the team can stay healthy, that apple could be rising again quite a lot this season.

It was fantastic to read at the old Howland again. Thanks to Hayden!

Hello m8. If you wanna have more notes or followers, you gotta put tags! That'll help so more people will be able to view your posts 'cause they haven't really got time to search through every blog, they'll just use tags to save time. Hope this helps

Thanks!

A longer poem

Murdered by Chekhov’s Gun In a dream I have been murdered by Chekhov’s gun. I awaken with a memory of a memory, Staring through an upstairs window At a boy with eyes so far away Like looking at a past life through his irises. There is a cancer of the soul distributing psychic pain Throughout the limbs and blood vessels And I write you letters because I cannot bear to hear your voice Or see you in the house of Eastern beauty. To find a modicum of peace I employ prime number echolalia And a cabinet filled with kleptocrats cannot hold me back. I am freed from bias and delusion By the illiterate librarian who has scrawled illegible notes In the margins of books for me to find. Shall we go on a magic carpet journey To find the landfill of lost dreams? Then can we draw blood with a run of the tongue, Ignoring the noises of engines sparking and igniting In the next door neighbor’s garage. To be haunted by the past is to understand it, To see clearly the metallic awls and spindles That indistinctly reach for one out the the haze of time. Simian hands work and simian faces stare And still the taxi speeds around the hairpin turn And I am left without a means to get home At the end of the grey foggy day. The candle of separation burns down Until the white and red wax has all vanished, Until the two silver flutes play in perfect harmony A dirge for the logs that have burned up through the flue. The human body cannot possibly survive the labor of life. In the grand tradition of electricity The fuse blows and the box is forever locked. Then the organic refuse of the world returns to the earth Where it is replaced by verdant splendor Which will preside over forests and jungles That can no longer house humanity.