"I'm stuffed," said Desmond, pushing his plate away.

"Me, too," said Tomas, "to the fucking gills, man." He tossed a final pork rib, the meat half chewed off, to the pile of bones already adding a chaos of thick white lines to his plate's dark circle.

Sylvia looked up from the roasted quail breast she was happily deconstructing. "My grandfather was so fucking corny," she said, licking her fingers. "He'd never say he was stuffed to the gills. He'd always say 'McGillicuddies.' He'd be, like, 'I am stuffed to the McGillicuddies!'"

"Your grandfather would've gotten along great with my grandfather," said Tomas, smiling.

"My grandfather," said Desmond, reaching for his wine glass, "always told me to never eat until you're full, that you should always stop short."

"Always leave 'em wanting more," said Tomas.

"No," said Desmond, "because it takes your sense of fullness a few minutes to catch up with what's actually going on in your stomach. Seriously. You're probably already full before you can feel that you're full."

"My grandfather," said Tomas, "always said you should go for the extreme, that life was too short to follow that 'everything in moderation' crap." He raised his own wine toward Desmond; they clinked glasses. "Of course," continued Tomas, "my grandfather also told me that he was the unacknowledged father of M.F.K. Fisher's daughter Anne."

"M.F.K. Fisher?" said Sylvia. "The Art of Eating M.F.K. Fisher?"

Tomas nodded, took another swig of Cabernet Sauvignon. "That's what he told me."

"Damn," said Sylvia, frowning. "I wonder if that's true."

     I never saw the bronze man that night outside the warehouse, but Sal always swore he did.
     This was years before you were born, sweetie ~ decades before. It was another world, another time.
     We shouldn't have been there in the first place, Sal and I. In those days Red Hook wasn't the kind of place to be snooping around at one in the morning, especially if you were a couple of green kids like us, but Sal was going to journalism school at Columbia and he liked to think of himself as an intrepid reporter, like Stanley hunting Dr. Livingstone, some wild notion like that. Fools rush in ~ like they say, right? And there I was, rushing in with him, because ... well, because I was his best friend and he could always talk me into anything. We were maybe the slightest bit tipsy from a few beers at Muldoon's, too, although Sal'd had little trouble steering his father's car to where we'd parked beneath a Royal Crown Cola sign a few blocks away.
     This was just a minor reconnoitering expedition, he told me, a little look-see at someplace bound to be more interesting than our usual haunts.
     Besides, he said, it was no big deal, he was familiar with the neighborhood.
     "Since when are you familiar with this neighborhood?" I asked him. I buttoned my coat tighter and took a glance down the deserted streets. Enormous buildings of brick and wood spilled shadows in a black flood across the cobblestones. A few streetlamps struggled against the night. I had this feeling of dirt, that all the surfaces around us were covered with a film of grime. "Since when do you come anywhere near Brooklyn at all?"
     "Since August, dummy," he said. The chill of mid-October danced in little breezes around us, bringing a smell of the Atlantic from piers a few blocks away. "When LaGuardia cut the ribbon for that new Rec Center? That big swimming pool the whole city had conniptions over? Who do you think covered that for the Spectator, huh?" He jabbed a thumb into his chest, grinning. "Yours truly, Salvatore Adorno."
     "Truly a force to be reckoned with," I said, "here in your home away from home."
     "Hey, when in Rome," he said, shrugging.
     "Since when are you familiar with Rome?"
     He gave me a look like I'd just asked if he'd mind kissing Jean Harlow.
     "Sal-va-to-re A-dor-no," he repeated. "What am I, a Chink?"
     "What you are ~ " I began, but Sal slapped a hand over my mouth.

[to be continued]

Twitch, and you twitch alone.
Dance, and the world
will nail a better mousetrap to your door.

These are the words by which we live,
gleaned from maps our mothers made
on the other side of cross-stitch samplers,
turned always towards the walls of home.

These are the words, my missing one,
whereby the futures open wide their mouths and grin.

It is better to have loved and lost
than to have removed one's own kidney
with a short sharp stick
in the back of a speeding taxi
on a rainy night in Valdosta.

These are the words by which we live,
the lingua franca issued us with the A, the C, the G, the T,
the deoxyribonucleic assiduousness of which
we remain powerless to resist.

These are the words, sweet absentine,
that put the primrose in your prisoned past.

Cataclysm. Cataclysm. Cataclysm.

This is my heart for want of you.

(Listen: Beneath our feet, the small talk of tectonic plates.)

You will be the pencil rapidly recording thoughts and passing dialogues,
I, the child finding your poem online after coming home drunk, feeling
The joy of a future untold and unrestrained.
And you, in your infinite selfishness, write alone.
Screaming for you to glue me back together-
Silent stares, brimming with sadness, forcing me to remember all the smiles I had given you.
This and every letter I fantasize of sending you but never will.
The gap that bridges two intersecting lives-

Jumping from the precipice of our unbounded love, you who bade me climb ever higher, escape me.

Wake up remembering not to jump across the track slitting my neck
for you who I don't really know at all.
God, who alerts I to the wolves' deceptive costuming.
The hidden meaning between your lines is brilliant and throbbing
it's light through the cracks in your walls tonight.
Your gentle river becoming a rapid I am happy to hear of your departure.
Absolved from the pretension I make my way into my head and watch
you all from a safe distance, laughing.

Your smell of broken flowers
Sowing your summer garden, falling into you winter.
My bones are strong from you, swimming my
Clarity comes in monsoons, human affections raging,
Protected, I sleep inside you, your rough bark skin,
The nectar of your childhood, swaying in the wind growing
old and massive and beautiful.

This shattered city
Torn, our divine ecstasy,
Love, coddled in the dark.

I dreamt forever sleeping the days away,
My solace in fantasy, a world I could affect,
Symbols for my passion, hysteria,
Sleepless, restless, becoming the sun.
The ocean your intuition my relief swept broad

Stroking incessantly abreast the waves I find you exhausted
Exhaling seawater, counting the ebbs that must wash you ashore
To me-

Your rolling features
Frothing over
Pounding blood beating out
Our only rhythm

In the moonlight your eyes ravaging the horizon
Seeking out your fantastic shoreline, my promised harbour,
The coalescence, water finds land, you're flying in the ocean
running through the moonlight swimming through my flaming heart
converging.

Drill deep into the skull's dull egg,
derail its train of thought, undo the yoke inside for good.

Trepanation, trepidation,
an id their only separation.

Bestial, my beating heart. I should, I should, I should.

#1: I'd like to assure our audience, who or whatever they may be, that although there's not been much new content over the course of the last couple / several months, that we've not given up - no, not even close. We're just too lazy, ambivalent, busy or drunk to really do anything about it. But not to worry, there is much, oh so much more to come. We've got passion, people, so hold on to them newfangled urban horses of yours.

#2: We are in desperate need of contributors. Maybe desperate isn't the right word. Maybe it'd be better to say: "We don't really care if you contribute, but we guess it'd be kind of cool." Look, this isn't the kind of deal where you get paid shiny new nickels for writing shitty blog posts about shitty shit that no one cares about. This is about YOU and YOUR ART. You don't create for this site, you share with this site.

Future LightningBulb.com contributor: You are an artist. You make art. You do your thing - your own, very special delightfully unique thing. You want to contribute to LightningBulb.com in order to share your art with other artists - other beautiful people like you. That's the idea folks. Bringing people together, sharing ideas, creating change. All that stuff.

#3 Assuming I do manage to put together a good group of contributors, the site will surely (and probably does already) need a redesign. I'm way ahead of you. Just know I'm thinking it.

So come join in on the LightningBulb.com cultural deconstruction crew, and leave your helmets behind. We're looking for: poets, short story writers, journalists, opinion writers, politicos, podcasters, photographers, painters, graphic designers, visual artists, musicians, sound engineers, filmmakers, videographers, documentarians, experimental performance artists - you know, ARTISTS. The whole enchilada. So, slather yourself in sauce, eat your rice and beans, and be the change you want to be in the world - by joining this website.

Your most humble hammer-wielding iconoclast,
Man Magma

Now this ish is old school.

(click to play or right click and "save as" to download)

Love is luck
Fancy timing and a good mood
Subdued
It's a dance with yourself and a stranger
It doesn't take your hand until your walking off the floor
When you want no more
Love is a joke
Makes you giggle
Releases endorphins
It's that annoying friend who's insecure and apologizes too much
Love is luck
And luck is chance
All at a glance
When you don't want to look