Steve Dalachinsky

 

 

 

(USA)

 

 

 

 

The Fallout of Dreams

 

1.

i came from a clean neighborhood
in the city of Brooklyn
there were trees
a bridal path
a bike path
the big scary cemetery
the touch football
the dead-end street
the sewer to sewer stickball
punchball stoopball potsie
ringolevio & hide-&-seek
the movie house barbershop
candy store deli & pizza place
girls the schoolyard the pool hall
girls sex
the cigarettes hidden in an old tire
in the garage
& more much more
almost small town america except that Brooklyn was
special like hot dogs & the Dodgers in Ebbets Field

when the day ended i went home
ate supper took a bath watched t.v……

 

2.

in the summer we took a trolley to the beach
the hot eye of the sun looked down as mom dished
out the lettuce & tomato sandwiches
i ate quietly with the waves between my ears
sand between the bread & crackling between my teeth
(so this was what a sand -wich really was)

there were no cherry trees in Brooklyn except the one
in my backyard. i climbed it for comfort, refuge & protection.
i put my hands in my lap & swallowed the cherry pits
waiting for a tree to grow inside me…this was the age of the atom &
every atom of my fibre tried not to think of mushroom clouds
then i’d go inside. take a bath. watch t.v.

 

3.

every thursday we had to attend auditorium
in public school our colors were green & white
we sang the national anthem & received lectures from the
teachers…sometimes in our class room after the pledge of allegiance
they’d tell us to duck down in a corner or under
our desks stuff our heads into our chests & our hands
behind our necks. they said this would save us if the “commies”
would ever drop the BOMB …. (now i know better)
the standard joke at the time was
“when the bomb comes put your head between your legs
& kiss your ass good-bye” – it’s still pretty funny

afterwards i went home ate supper
took a bath with my toy atomic submarine…..watched t.v…………etc.

 

4.

on weekends i dreamt of tigers or went to horror movies
with the gang…or best of all we’d hang around the pizza place
on east 13th street & ave. j pretending to be tough
listening to the juke box or singing rock & roll songs on the corner.
we called ourselves the j-tones. i was the lead singer
my nickname was little dilly-dally.

but my world began to cloud over. my mind got
side-tracked & my temperament grew dark. panic set in.
i was sedated berated shocked & inundated with
words like “you’ll get better but it’ll take a long time.”
better from what?
i asked but received no reply.. “all you do is sit around all day
picking your nose & masturbating .” punching walls
putting fists through windows – bleeding & blowing my fuse
so i’d close the door write a poem…pick my nose
…take a shower …masturbate…watch t.v. & wait…..

 

5.

soon came the first trips to the world of manhattan –
radio city & crazy times square 42nd street
lights action lust….the growing up blues. hearing that
first jazz record…zooming off to greenwich village & being real “beat”
…. smoking my first joint with the gorgeous bi-sexual black fem…
or ramming into the priest with the station wagon
who blessed our stoned little souls…
8 days a week blaring out of the radio

& by now coming home real late at
night…..too late to bathe or watch t.v. but never too late to sleep &…….

 

6.

then there was the big upset
the principal came over the P.A. one day
announced that the president had been shot
& that we could all go home –
i got home washed ate supper & sat in front
of the t.v.
there was the waiting & the waiting & then the
death

suddenly weird things began to happen – the fallout from
all those dreams became even more painful…
my eyes started drifting. my ears heard different sounds.
different pieces of america started to bombard me
negroes buffaloes bridges & rainbows
acid rain & strange acid worlds…
symphony sid telling me to cool off or…
there were insides & outsides their side & our side
bathtubs missles & t.v.

 

7.

well the trolley’s gone & so’s the 15 cent fare.
the fallout shelters have fallen into decay &
those funny little yellow signs have rusted
or been ripped away
i go to the beach whenever i can. pick my nose.
take showers & watch t.v.
(mostly the news food channel & old movies)
i still eat burgers, pizza, cornflakes, peanut butter &
cherries – still wait for the tree to grow inside me
tho now i know it never will –

i think about the world a lot
& pretend that i am safe
as i watch the cherry blossom fallout
………………..sometimes i sleep…sometimes i………………………………..

 

 

steve dalachinsky nyc

MORIR SONANDO ( p . t . t . )
– “ my dream fell apart.”

 

1. good/evil/good

i still have not woken up
from this
i forgot whether i brushed my teeth
today
a hit in the head did not work
there is too much sky there
( never enough sky )
the smoke is a cloud in which i walk
in my sleep i have not woken up from this even smacking into a stop sign
has not revived me i breathe you in with the plastic & steel
5000 souls inhabit my bloodstream the smoke people will go home that way.

 

2. the source of poetry

we all ordered a lot of coffee this morning yes we all had to wake up

we thank god/they thank god we/they i rummage thru the rubble for distinctions

dispicable cowards stayed to the end like warriors
we die for our country with presumptions of life they have no presumptions
who are They ? rummaging thru the rubble i steal a clue.

19 virgins await them in heaven. for me there is only the hint of salvation.
i prefer to stay here for as long as i can.

meeting the old poet on the almost deserted street i ask what do you think?
“it’s like a holiday.” he answers.

 

3. at dawn

where do they put all that stuff from the port-o-sans when the party is over ?

 

4. the artist

i need $60 to get back to buffalo & i only have 23.
i’m a hip-hop artist. my friend convinced me to come to n.y.
to fulfill my dream but now my dream fell apart. can you help me?

(this is n.y. that’s why people come here. the only thing they fear is failure.)

 

5. some pedestrian thoughts

REDEMPTION THROUGH STRUGGLE
we are blessed with faith

THE APPLE HAS BEEN BITTEN BUT NOT FALLEN FROM THE TREE

PLEASE GOD THROUGH THE DARKNESS WE NEED MORE HELP

NOW IS THE TIME TO BE HUMAN be still my soul be still

fluttering above the arch still for sale we must remember we are all still for sale
t-shirts with logos

tho i know i have lost my comfort zone
i do not want to be dead at this time
tho i have forgotten how to dream
i still prefer to walk the plain path……..

 

6. diversity

we scale the tower
pole vault
walk the high wire
breathe the dust thru trumpet chant & tambourine
breathe steel flesh sky blue the smell so strong thick

i must dismantle these images disengage this reality
procure a guardian angel process dismantle & prevail

detain me at the gate if you must……

 

7. the wino

why wake the wino from his sleep
he has sat on the cement on thompson street
for over 30 years
consuming & consumed
filling his emptiness
with bottles of dreams
scaling the tower
pole vaulting
walking the high wire
perhaps the ground on where he sleeps has been consecrated by his piss.
here,
drink of my blood.

 

8. the shadows ( a )

the shadows of the leaves blowing on the warm concrete
are beautiful today. it’s been a week of calm clear weather but for one rain storm.
my eyes have not yet opened as i look south wanting.

 

9. the shadows ( b )

THE SHADOWS OH THE SHaDoWs
they’ve been pulverized too!

 

10. the shadows ( c ) souls in the lost & found

shadows sitting on benches in terminals
on chairs in front of the café
laughing & drinking latté
talking on cell phones

i’m ½ blind though the pretty ones are still pretty
i turn south again toward my ruin
my one good i (eye) reconstructing the landscape.

even you have woken up rich boy without cash you cannot buy your breakfast.

 

11. to the fallen

SO CLOSE. SIRENS AGAIN. SO CLOSE.

small, limp, lost & far from the sight of your breasts my hose can only piss now.
my hydrant would rather stay shut.

 

12. demonic possession. loss of the light. can we really separate the sheep from the goats?

the music responds

a. bessie smith comes over the loud speaker
“……caused me to pack my things & go”
i will not move unless you come with me.

b. ( law cannot be law if not enforced )

count basie – it’s a matter of tempo

c. monk on the megaphone rattatatratatat
right hand in orderly fashion
designs a pattern of hot emergency
from the foundation
of his relaxed urgency

a hotline emerges i am unable to call it airpockets are created i am unable to volunteer
my services i call myself a COWARD
tho it may well be that i am simply not a hero

d. the a.e.o.c.

i have cried more than once in the past few days.
the streets are littered with candles. messages. photos of the missing & the ocassional bad poem….there are many people in sorrow. have always been. i turn you over. hear you again & again.

 

13. suicide

my mother was a twin tho her sister died at birth.
now they are both dead.
the gender of a structure. does it matter? exist?

the twins have perished.
they lived with us for about as long as jesus did.
they accomplished much in their short time.
they fulfilled their mission.
what was their gender?
where did their sex lie?
one born minutes before the other.
one died minutes after the other.
some dared to call them men.

2 coffins that blocked the sky. there is never enough sky. like me coughing into themselves.

 

14. everything is so clear. you are my co-pilot.

i turn my eyes inward
sleepy eyes
starry eyes
afraid shy unable to communicate

they fall into my stomach
lie there quietly

like jonah in the whale
waiting to be digested

& shat into the great big sea

 

15. lean on me

i waited at the cafe for you but you didn’t show up.

my coffee got cold my water warm

the shadow of the blding & its breeze consumed me
i needed you or so i thought the back of my head faced south.

i closed my eyes again.

 

16. Operation Noble Eagle (infinite justice)

there are a lot of sleepwalkers here. i trust in your sensibilities better than mine. i’d rather see thru your eyes.

 

17. heaven speaks today in the men’s room

IT’S O.K.
I’M WITH THE
BAND

 

 

 

 

The Fallout of Dreams

 

1.

i came from a clean neighborhood in the city of brooklyn. there were trees. a bridal path. a bike path. the big scary cemetery. the touch football & dead-end street, stoopball & potsie. the movie house, butchershop, bakery & barber shop. ringolevio & hide-&-seek. dominic’s shoe repair, the toy store, clothes shop, candy store, deli & pizza place. girls. the schoolyard. the pool hall (where i eventually bought my first hard drugs). my dog. my cat. hard drugs. the cigarettes hidden in an old tire in the garage. girls. sex. hard drugs. & more, much more.
it was almost small town america except that Brooklyn was special like hot dogs & the dodgers in ebbets field (who sadly betrayed us by moving to l.a.) but i was always a yankees fan for which i caught lots of flack.
when the day ended i went home, ate supper, took a bath & watched t.v……

 

war dream 1

a. i found myself on the ground floor in a small room of a big blding in short sleeves with a white rabbit sleeping under the bed. the quilt was a faded grey patchwork. outside the garbage cans stood in a perfect line just as i had left them. all 7 were empty. i was left with only my self to face. the day was a sad haiku.

b. got fked over then fked over again. stepped on. trashed. dollared. once for the hell of it then for the helluvit. flowed over. limbs cut. brains blown out. air flow improved. ghosts hiding in old shoes.

 

2.

summer: we took a trolley to the beach. the hot eye of the sun looked down as mom dished out the lettuce & tomato sandwiches. i ate quietly with the waves between my ears,
sand between the bread & crackling between my teeth (so this was what a sand -wich really was.)
there were no cherry trees in brooklyn except the one in my backyard. i climbed it for comfort, refuge & protection. i put my hands in my lap & swallowed the cherry pits, waiting for a tree to grow inside me. this was the age of the atom & every atom of my fiber tried not to think of mushroom clouds. ruptured by false promises & dreams i’d go inside. take a bath. watch t.v.

 

3. duck & cover:

every thursday we had to attend auditorium. our colors were green & white. we sang the national anthem & received lectures from the teachers. sometimes after the pledge of allegiance they’d tell us to crouch in a corner or under our desks, stuff our heads into our chests & our hands behind our heads. they said this would save us if the “commies” dropped the BOMB. the standard joke at the time was “when the bomb comes put your head between your legs & kiss your ass good-bye”. it’s still pretty funny.
after school i went home grabbed the cigs in the tire, met shelly, martha & philip went down to martha’s basement played a grown up version of doctor (phil, a big guy & the italian in the quartet, always made fun of my tiny circumcised pecker.) then headed home. ate supper. took a bath with my toy atomic submarine. watched t.v. wrote a poem, drew a picture, played my 45’s, kissed my poster of harpo … tried to sleep.

insert: it dawned on me recently how valuable the system of nuclear weapons is. seems, if we don’t count the middle east, the world is a lot less safe without them. if we did not have such a destructive force to check man’s habits the world would have ended a long time ago. if all the nuclear weapons were abandoned…hey knucklehead stop rambling this is the 21st century…as for the future, further improvements, threats, deaths…& as for war well we got it right here at home…come back after the warning signs have chilled. in a few days these few days will be over. these fist-filled dark alleys will runneth over with toxins & blood. whitman long dead, rivers won’t need money. the world will be a crossing.

 

4.

on weekends i dreamt of tigers. played sewer to sewer punch ball or stick ball or went to horror movies with the gang. or best of all we’d hang around the pizza place on e.13th street & ave. j pretending to be tough listening to the juke box or singing doo-wop on the corner. we called ourselves the j-tones. i was the lead singer. my nickname was little dilly-dally.

 

willie’s dream:

a. one-legged. shoeless in front of the church. all he owned taken in the shelter. camelot cursed. america the colonized country. the chains of europa still binding.
willie listening to the last of his voice. pleading asking begging: please i am a colonized country. have only one leg left. colonized country nurtured by slavers & blackguards & bootleggers who only wanted to emulate those they broke free of. forging a life while making copy after copy of the ideals of others. the misery of others. somewhere between the museum & the mausoleum. time is borrowed & the interest payments endless. i hold a mirror up to the ordinary my face tattooed to the window. no surprises or mysteries anymore. more boredom & discontent. more time for meat. less time for coffee. chances of pleasure. evocations. calypsos. challenge. contemplation. longing. discontent. to have so many promises broken. willie’s out there somewhere carrying his library through camelot: cursed, colonized & free.

b. deep in the heart of the worker’s heart through the core of his soul past the density of his poisonous chores he only heeds the call of immediacy > hungry mouths – the family he swore to protect – the luxuries & necessities he must provide – the roof over their heads > & though he murders the air > pollutes his children’s futures > it is only now that he is consumed with confusing present & future always > this unfortunate saint > this destroyer > this soldier > selfless selfish self-survivalist never realizing that the future is NOW > i curse the hooker > the big rig > the chemical plants > i assassinate the cockroach & turn the stereo up. i am determined to graduate from my adolescence then to my adolescence now. ½ man. ½ moon. mirror split/sun strolling/: advertisements.

 

5.

suddenly my world began to cloud over. my mind got side-tracked & my temperament grew dark. panic set in. i got angry at everything > at the state of the world & at america in particular. all those wars & starving folks around the globe. the melting pot had become a boiling pot. i got jealous if anyeone danced with my girl. i threw things, threw tantrums, ranted & raved. i was penalized severely. was given shock treatment & drugs to calm me down & was finally put away. they tried everything possible to alter my bones. my mind. i was sedated, berated, inundated & degraded “you’ll get better but it’ll take a long time.”. “better from what?” i’d ask but received no reply or was told not to worry. “all you do is sit around all day picking your nose & masturbating .” they’d grunt. “better from what?” i’d ask. “don’t worry” they’d say”… or “you’re totally nuts” they’d proclaim…so i’d close the door. pick my nose. take a shower …masturbate (once i got caught)…eat dinner. watch folks slash their wrists…watch t.v. & wait…wait…wait… to get better from WHAT!

while confined someone handed me Howl & Coney Island of the Mind & someone else handed me a seconal. my poetry & life were completely transformed. i was 14. confined & free. drugs. hard drugs. i wrote: sunday evening’s entrails on monday morning’s plate. sewer mud java – my cup runneth over – brooklyn bridge is falling down empire state crumbles to the ground – celebration – quiet hysteria in the streets – new york’s last huge hunk of stale concrete lands on my head & wakes me up…i will smoke my last cigarette & try to forget the corruption & perversion that surrounds me…the poverty & sickness & filthy rich slobs…prejudice, hate & the mad-dog mobs…i will sit & dig the stillness & forget all madness but my own… manhattan bridge is falling down u.n. crumbles to the ground – celebration..

 

war dream 1b: Jihad

Truly & True is Jah. A (illegible) of Celebration in the Camp of the true I can stay from here That’s if Iam Sure. (illegible) hear . The Mountain is blue with a smoke of Incense Surrounding the Camp. But only if the camp remains under strain once chant was true & I mean so Blue. for it heals all wounds . Now it is the Camp of the Strong Are You so strong Rasta Ma . Spirituality hes left hes left your Camp At least I believe so Or is it still there . Underneath A Sack cloth of ha (illegible). Because times has changed. And so (has crossed out replaced with) is The true And living Rasta Man .

(first there was the shroud of turin – now it’s christ’s face on a tortilla wrap)

1c: dust my broom – dreams end like the special of the day & sometimes pop up again a week later. depends on whose writing the menu. for instance > ham, cheddar & salsa omlette served every sunday or maybe only today > blood sausage bi-monthly > bi-pass annually > wars daily > death once in a lifetime > you imprison me in the shower stall i watch as you fuck sleep wake & finally eat yourselves to death > i try washing you away…change the menu so to speak…the water is scalding hot……………………….i rise in a cold sweat god reveals himself to me like double vision glorious moments of music in an otherwise uneventful nightmare. row houses & the dark little girl running in the lifeless haunted garden. everything is for sale. the family business / the house / vegetables / pinched nerves / the polar icecaps / polar bear pelts, paws / the old black dog’s wagging tail / smiles / governments / cosmetics / cemeteries / oil / gas / this fine spring day. even the sun is mortgaged off. the moon in its shadow. & me still holes in the ozone where a glass of water costs way too much.

 

6.

a. when i got out i soon took my first trip to manhattan. radio city & crazy times square. lights. action. lust. JAZZ. the growing up blues. zooming off to the village & being real “beat.” smoking my first joint with the gorgeous bi-sexual black fem i met “inside” & coming all over her sheets.
one stoned night high on reefer & downs, me & the guys rammed into the priest with the station wagon somewhere on the jersey turnpike in a “borrowed” car. he blessed our teenage souls. “8 days a week” blasted from the car radio. by now i was coming home real late at night…..too late to bathe or watch t.v. but never too late to sleep always with my feet covered by the blankets so the boogie man wouldn’t drag me under the bed to my untimely death…….i still sleep this way.
one night i called symphony sid & told him to play that nina simone song i loved so much now i forgot the name but it’s buried somewhere on vinyl in this overcrowded rent controlled mind i survive in. he told me “go to bed kid you’re stoned.”
i shouted “fuck you sid” and hung up. of course he was right he being one of many guardian angels i never listened to. oh yeh the song was “3WOMEN”.

b. then there was the big upset. the principal came over the P.A. announced that the president had been shot & that we could all go home. i got home. washed. ate supper & sat in front of the t.v. there was the waiting & the waiting then the death.

suddenly weird things began to happen. the fallout from all those dreams became more painful. more people died. were assassinated. more drugs entered my body & my consciousness. my eyes started drifting. my ears heard different sounds. different pieces of america started to bombard me. negroes. buffaloes. bridges & rainbows. acid rain & strange acid worlds. there were insides & outsides. their side & our side. 2 more needles spoon shot sand sweat the zookeeper the lost mother trip anger – vomit crystal meth – the animal trainers whip – hunger artists – endless corridors – space time control – come downs come downs come downs – ice cubes > bathtubs. missiles. the murderer as good guy… o.d.s…WAR…& t.v.

 

war dream 2 – we were in X’s apt. on e.4th & b me X & s.g. we were discussing dreams, drugs, literature, the scene, honest thieves, dishonest meddlers, the definition of nice guys & why the world was no longer safe for democracy. i needed to keep an appointment on ave. c & 3rd & knew that s.g. would follow me to muscle in in his own “sweet way”. so i said ciao & ran out quickly to get to my next destination without being followed. in the dream north was south & vice versa. to avoid s.g. i ran south toward e. 10th where i had intended to proceed toward ave. c & then backtrack. i stopped between 9th & 10th to see if s.g. was in pursuit. sure enough he was, rounding the corner of 4th coming my way. i sped up turned again. he started to run toward me & instantly (this being a dream remember) ended up coming at me in a tank. i quickly rounded 10th & ran smack into a group of middle aged hispanic women. suddenly what seemed like a big ball of fire whoooshed over our heads & just as suddenly, as our eyes followed it toward the river, a huge mushroom cloud appeared on the Brooklyn side. i knew instinctively that the end had come. “look” i said, pointing “ a nuclear bomb” … thinking “was it iran or s.g.” they nodded. i woke up. the dream had ended as well.

 

7.

the trolley’s gone & so’s the 15 cent fare. the fallout shelters have fallen into decay & those funny little yellow signs have rusted or been ripped away & those funny little yellow pills have long been off the market. i go to the beach whenever i can. pick my nose. bite my nails. take showers & watch t.v. the news, the food channel & old movies. i still eat burgers, pizza, cornflakes, peanut butter & cherries – still wait for the tree to grow inside me. still think the american dream is possible though i now know it’s just a dream. a dream that has become a virus that has spread throughout the world.
i spent my whole life trying to get out of brooklyn & now everyone is trying to get in to it. but i still live in new york in the heart of downtown manahatta, the island of dreams. i think about the world a lot & sometimes pretend that i am safe as i watch the cherry blossom fallout.
………………..sometimes i sleep…sometimes i………………………………..

 

 

 

 

 

 

www.myspace.com/stevedalachinsky

 

 

Steve Dalachinsky is a New York downtown poet. He is active in the poetry, music, art and music- Free jazz scene.
Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1946. He has been writing poetry for many years and has worked with such musicians as William Parker, Susie Ibarra, Matthew Shipp, Roy Campbell, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Mat Maneri, Federico Ughi, Loren Mazzacane Connors, Tim Barnes, Jim O’Rourke. He has appeared at most of the Vision Festivals, an Avant-jazz, festival involving many of these musicians. He also appears often at the Knitting Factory. He currently lives in Manhattan with his wife, painter and poet Yuko Otomo.
Dalachinsky’s books include « A Superintendent’s Eyes » (Hozomeen Press 2000), his PEN Award Winning book The Final Nite & Other Poems: Complete Notes From A Charles Gayle Notebook 1987-2006 (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2006), a compendium of poetry written while watching saxophonist Charles Gayle perform throughout New York City in that time period, and « Logos and Language », co-authored with pianist Matthew Shipp (RogueArt 2008) and Reaching Into The Unknown, a collaboration with French photographer Jacques Bisceglia (RogueArt 2009).
His poems are included in the anthologies Beat Indeed, Writers Beyond the Margin, The Haiku Moment, Downtown Poets, Resistance, A History of Jews and the Lower East Side, The Unbearables anthologies Help Yourself and The Worse Book I Ever Read, Up is Up but So is Down, viviparous blenny, Ragged Lion, Off the Cuffs, In the Arms of Words, Hurricane Blues, An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind, La tentation du silence, DOC(K)S (« Lecon d’amour), Le Petit Mercure’s Le gout du Jazz and the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry.
Dalachinsky has written liner notes for the CDs of many artists including Anthony Braxton, Charles Gayle, Derek Bailey, James « Blood » Ulmer, Rashied Ali, Roy Campbell, Matthew Shipp and Roscoe Mitchell.
Among his many chapbooks are Musicology (Editions Pioche, Paris 2005), Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmouth Collective 2003), Lautreamont’s Laments (Furniture Press 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse 2005), St. Lucie (King of Mice Press 2005), Are We Not MEN and Fake Book (2 books of collage – 8 Page Press 2005), Dream Book (Avantcular Press 2005), Totems (Unarmed Press 2008), Christ Amongst the Fishes (a book of collage – Oil Can Press 2009) and Invasion of the Animal People (Alternating Current 2009).
His 1999 CD, Incomplete Directions (Knitting Factory Records), a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, such as William Parker, Matthew Shipp, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Thurston Moore (SonicYouth) and Vernon Reid (Living Colour) has garnered much praise.
Among Dalachinsky’s other CDs are Thin Air with guitarist Loren Mazzacane Connors (Silver Wonder Recording recorded 2001, released 2006), Phenomena of Interference, a collaboration with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records 2006), Merci Pour le Visite with Didier Lassere, drums and Sebastian Capezza, saxophone (Amor Fati 2007). His work has also been read by Derek Bailey and John Tchicai on their respective cds.
He has read throughout the N.Y. area including the Poetry Project and the Vision Festival. Dalachinsky has also read in San Francisco and other cities throughout the U.S., Japan and Europe, including Germany, England and France. Some of the venues in France are Instants Chavires, the Olympic Cafe and Sete Lizards. He also participated in the Sons d’Hiver Festival (2004) and the Biennial of Poetry in Val de Marne (2007), CIPM in Marseille (2007) and Maison d’Poesie in Nantes (at Pannonica 2007). He recently read his Insomnia Poems (written for Louise Bourgeois), a collaboration with British composer Pete Wyer, for the BBC’s Jazz on 3 in England.
New collaboration in 2011 with French duet art-rockers The Snobs on new cd album; Steve Dalachinsky and The Snobs « Massive Liquidity »- An unsurreal post-apocalyptic anti-opera in two acts -( French label Bam Balam.records). « Steve Dalachinsky and The Snobs » met in winter 2011 in Paris to record some vocals for the project. (Harmonie Magazine #72) « Massive Liquidity » presents two twenty minutes musical suites made of various influences: 1969’s Miles Davis’ instrumental freedom hit Einstürzende Neubauten’s industrial and elegant sense of rhythm. Psychedelic effects are both essential and measured to let a strict groove between James Brown and Arnold Schoenberg happen. Dalachinsky’s voice is the narrative element: it can be a gentle whisper at a moment and turn into a wild and menacing raucous noise just few seconds later. Words and music interact, they sometimes hurt each other or simply become one only powerful and moving sound. The record’s closing belongs to the voice, which seems to clarify the violent and cosmic experience the listener just had: « It’s his head now… Pull the trigger ».
Dalachinsky’s main influences are the Beats, Blake, The Odyssey, obsession, socio-political angst, human disappointment, music (especially Jazz), and visual art with leanings toward abstraction. His work, for the most part is spontaneous and leans towards transforming the image rather than merely describing it, in what he now refers to as transformative description/descriptive transformation.

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