It was a truly gorgeous Saturday morning in Washington, D.C., and as the day wore on the sky would be veined with the rainbow collisions of clouds and light against blue. By 7 a.m., homeless men sat on the steps below the blunt-tipped, somehow incomplete statue in front of Union Station, debating the relative virtues of various hustles. By 8 a.m., a spinning zoetrope of … Continue reading Season of the Clown by David Z. Morris
There is a panhandler who wanders the subways of midtown – I call him the Bitter Giant. He’s at least six feet and six inches tall, easily three hundred pounds, darkly and thickly bearded – he might be Sephardic, or Persian, or Greek. Regardless, he is the rare New York panhandler who has not learned to use empathy or hope to his advantage. He dresses … Continue reading The Bitter Giant of Midtown by David Z. Morris
The grey slate windowed walls rose like cliffs on every side, a strip of sky traversed by flying spans, staircases to higher and lower levels, railcars weaving on steel beams. The man-boy was hungry and on every side were ground-level windowed gatherings where squat-faced men sat in rows at counters, staring out at him with full mouths. The man-boy was in a strangest land. He … Continue reading The Eater (Ormstrongt Xperimant #9) by David Z. Morris
I don’t want to get too deep into the content of this video, suffice it to say, everything is explained within it. And if you couldn’t be there, that’s a shame. You’ve got to come to the next one–or don’t, I guess that’s why I make these videos… for you Andy Warhol voyeur types. In any event, I’d like to think of us as symbolists … Continue reading The Opiate Vol. 8 Reading
How do we live in such darkness we huddle and scuttle and glide and hide. We gather to make light We prepare to fight fiercely Training with sharpened bones in hand again the move to disembowel again the move to paralyze again the move to instantly kill. It comes in turn and turn about Epochal nights follow Generation days What has grown withers without care … Continue reading “Night” by David Z. Morris
Outside acrobatic flips, the appeal of tween girls is pretty much lost on me. Of course they live forever in brightness and polaroid, but there is no drama there, in the whiteness and blondness and unironic tie-dyed t-shirts. Being idealized, and idealizing, it is so unmistakably boring. The house is a ruse. A trap. And then there is her Limber as a ballplayer A ghost … Continue reading “Harbor” by David Z. Morris
