Newer, shorter pieces

I've been thinking a lot recently about memory, and not about memory, but about your interaction with the past that you are able to call up into existence in your mind.

Delancey/Essex, October

On cold, sunny mornings In New York City
the streets smell like everything impermanent
The very end of fall
The baking of food
The browning of leaves
It smells exactly like someone else's skin

This city knows
that our strongest memories
are tied to the things that do not stay



dusty

When we talked
she would stare at my feet
like I was standing right where her heart had been buried
and when she would look up
I could almost feel it beating
dusty
Under those big combat boots
And then I would look down
and shift my feet uncomfortably
trying to stand anywhere but under my own weight





No Gods Here

If there are no gods here
then we are a collage of bones
and the entire weight of our mythology
with no blueprint

Leper angels cradling their blackened wings

Alter boy martyrs trying to grow into what they have seen

Our fathers and sons
invisible
holy ghosts

we are heaving under the unguided mass
of divinity
and there are no gods here