#marcus goodman

[galaxystudios-blog1]

Marcus wrote a book

It was a choose-your-own-adventure book called, "The Illusion of Free Will." Instead of the wacky meanderings usually found in this style of storytelling, it was trudging and bleak, each page leading inexorably to the next, with no real choice from the reader. Here are the reviews from the Galaxy Studios staff: "Extremely true to life." -Marcus Goodman "Fundamentally upsetting." -the Biographer "For once in your life, dude, just go outside. You live like a fucking dracula." -the ghost of Marion Goodman "I didn't read it." -Bradley Casdan

[weepingsadness]

When I create new words—and I’ve said this many times before—they’re not new at all. Wordsmithing is the art of plucking phonemic fragmentations from the collective unconscious and forging them into language.

Marcus Goodman, 2007

[weepingsadness]

Hating What We Loved About the Night

The nights are full and dark and the trains go by.

They make their sound to the no one listening, shine their light to the no one watching, and…

How long has it been, since we came to the city?

It feels like we were born here, maybe crawled from a manhole, fully formed and already been spit on. The times before have become the dream.

The lights shine the fog like my memories of the place. It was exciting, back then, when the filth and dangerous realities were new.

When did we lose our hopeful eyes?

Seeing drug pushers and boozers on the park benches where we might feed the ducks, women’s black eyes, staring deadly at the men who made them, the kid we saw shot on Delaney.

We’re part of it, now, part of the machine, living our dream.

But they never told us we could never leave.

[gazellepaulo]

dinner with marcus goodman at bistro francais in washington

[gazellepaulo]

sunday brunch with marcus goodman at level one restaurant in washington

[weepingsadness]

The New Noir

The city is alive. Drunkards flaunting flagrancy, wearing (as if it were proper) trench coats and glow sticks, the sick plastic vials shining green and red, bright as the robot rave scenes undoubtedly now frequented. And every night is the same. They fill the streets, taking with them the new dignity. A siren. Good. Helicopter. Better. But not the police. These are fun-cops and party-copters of the new city nights. And when they grow sick, (so sick of it all) say goodbye, goodnight, and back out tomorrow, sure thing. After tiny cups, hangover espresso. I wonder how they do it. After living the lives they do, sitting, drinking their coffee not screaming. MG

[weepingsadness]

a drop atop honeysweet milk, a soul sent windward, and you, looking on.

--into the aether--

Did you think, perhaps, I was not myself?

Maybe, as I stepped out, (Ever present though I was) THE IMPOSTOR, HE WHO WEARS MY FACE, the YANKEE DODGER SCOUNDREL Lingered, waiting.

in time I will return, but please, an aside, I still dream: (write this down)

Even the Gods must breathe. The upper air, the sweet vitriolic oil Having amongst its properties Evaporation of the self.

(Reality shifts once more) (BIOGRAPHER, write this down)

this is the aether-- an agreeable realm.

MG

[weepingsadness]

Letter to an Unpoet

(From the madman Marcus Goodman)

How do I describe a life bound to treeflesh and leather, to words, dutifully placed, (placed sometimes with a reckless       violence (imagine a piece of puzzle            not fitting correctly (jam it in))) a life of literary pursuances, or inter- and outterpretations made through haze of unsurity…

How do I describe this life to the unpoet? (to which group, certainly, I       sometimes belong) And to you, reader, unacquainted with the say-speech of nonsense makers; let me explain.

Poetry, or as I like to call it,               wordmagic, is the act of bringing a moment, (a vibrant, wondrous moment, perhaps) to a state of living staticicity. Impaginating emotives, binding them, stapling them, tearing them to pieces, only to glue them right back down.

That is poeticity.

And when you get it right, look upon your awestriking creation, encrumple the pages, and begin again.

That is poeticity.