Justin Karcher does Torn Space at Silo City
Buffalo, NY Is a Ritual You Will Never Quite Understand
By Justin Karcher
Tonight I follow the sound
of Buffalo’s growl
find myself in Silo City
where I’ve lost my mind
so many times before
once I dressed up Eric Mowery
like Icarus
told him to follow me around
as I read self-indulgent poetry
to an indifferent crowd
something about the sun
being locked away in a morgue
how can you fly too close
to something that isn’t there?
how can wings burn
if there isn’t any fire?
I was drunk
but I think it went well
perfect for City of Night
then there were times
I felt like a burden
to everyone who loves me
a motion picture
of my failures
for all to see
how I was knocked out
by ghost boxers
over and over again
my bruised body
left for dead
in a beautifully grotesque
riverboat
where shirtless red-haired boys
brought me back to life
with tattoos and punk songs
purgatory in this city
is simply drifting
down the Buffalo River
unable to change the fact
that all the buildings
all your friends
are changing
hunger has led me
to this place
more times than I can count
and here we are again
but it feels different
I’ve been promised a feast
that can kill my hunger for good
from the parking lot
I’m led down a grassy path
a labyrinth of sweaty hooligans
and bicycle beehives
the buzz you get
when you create something
with your hands
that isn’t self-destructive
life is about discovering
new ways to be born
the silos off in the distance
in the background
not the focus
which is nice
finally it feels
like I’m free of their handcuffs
no longer shackled to the past
or the promise of a repurposed future
there’s the hint of freshness
in the air
suddenly I’m petting a cow
her name’s Tilly
and I’m beginning to understand
the bearded man
is telling us about milk
how Tilly loves people
Carly snaps a photo of me with Tilly
social media is still a thing
even when you’re trying to forget
about everything
we say goodbye to Tilly
and I know I’m gonna miss her
we continue along the path
more sweaty hooligans
some of em crafting potatoes
out of thin air
others fishing for monsters
in bite-sized lakes
eventually
we enter a grove
sparkling with pagan manifestos
and neo-futurist dew
it doesn’t look like it belongs here
in a city
that’s always clinging to something
it shouldn’t
there’s a prehistoric tree
in the center of it all
the wind rustling through its leaves
making it sound like a heart
the thrush of beating
then we’re all seated
in well-crafted benches
eagerly awaiting
the feasting
then it begins
I open my mouth
and a bunch of girls in pink dresses
feed me pumpkin seeds
billions of em
rolling down my throat
into the dirt of my stomach
they bloom into pumpkins
then the girls in pink dresses
take sharpened twigs
and carve faces into my body
then they jam candles
into my new eyes and mouths
until I am everyone and no one
all at the same time
because hunger wears many faces
and it’s important to be
someone else’s jack-o-lantern
at least once in your life
a flickering of light
that chases their shadows away
find a ritual
that makes the most sense for you
I realize I am surrounded
by everyone
I used to party with
I’m not sure if they’re alive
or dead
but it doesn’t really matter
there’s a horny king
sitting on a throne
which is really
a mugwort teapot
he’s overseeing it all
yelling about pain
and sex
sometimes swiveling his hips
in a way
that makes everyone laugh
sometimes he throws food my way
and I feel like a dog
looking for scraps
everyone here
is also looking for scraps
right in front of us
thirsty hooligans milk Tilly
the cow
and I’m jealous
because I wanna be the one
that milks her
we all wanna be at the starting point
of sustenance
creating something
anything
but it can get violent
then there are wrestlers
grappling with the wind
one wins, the other loses
but we’re all blown into smithereens
one way or another
it just might not be that obvious
then there’s a satyr
wearing designer sunglasses
perched on the old tree
staring up at the storm clouds
sometimes lighting bolts
take the form of letters
from a language
that takes a lifetime to translate
but the electroshock
is always worth it
it makes me wonder
how we handle
the things that weigh us down
how long can we drag em around
before we lose a limb?
do we also drag cities around
hoping
the ground bloodies em up enough
that they resemble something
more suited to how we feel?
how long have I been dragging around
Buffalo?
a bald man
wearing psychotherapy pants
is being sacrificed
we sit quietly
holding up our cans of beer
toasting the inexcusable execution
of reality
some of us eating apples
and the crunch is louder
than thunder
seed, root, sprout, flower, fruit
we’re witnessing a ritual
a community
ripped from our daydreams
a city
on the rise for so long
must eventually
crack its skull open
on the sky
and collapse in a carnival
of strobe lights and haze
here we are
a phosphorescent punk
screams into a mic
a topless maiden
wipes away his anger
until he’s shivering in the grass
she looms over him
then stomps out his eyes
maybe they have sex
maybe it’s his last gasp
it’s hard to tell the difference
these days
hooligans are waving flags
this is probably the end
a pregnant woman
saunters through candlelight
and does prenatal yoga
we are full of songs
that must get bent out of us
south, west, north, east, center
and just like that
the feast is done
I can still hear Buffalo’s growl
just not as loud
a skyline of cracked silos
still breathing in the distance
just not as loud
we calmly walk out of the grove
back into civilization
I go find a porta potty
afterwards I light up a cigarette
and we go to Duende for drinks
the ritual continues, the feast
ultimately
never ends