In the permanent flophouse Love reigns supreme— A tried and torn migrant ready to drop from chronic fatigue. Advertisements
Brooklyn, the Walker Theater, 1987. I am twelve and precariously balancing on the shoulders of Fat Brian. Come on, you’re not getting any lighter, Fat Brian shouts. I reach up and lock my fingers around the … Continue reading
Posted in Prose
Tagged Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, Cinema, dirty dancing, jennifer grey, John Biscello, Literary, movie, patrick swayze, Prose, walker theater
The Meaning of the Mob. I say, the Mob, meaning the Definitely Uncertain, Fixed—a liberal form of physics— or the clotted swarm wallforming brick by brick, a mosaic pattern. Pick a number, any number, it’s a given. A given what, … Continue reading
Fear, how specters arrive on stilts, in the shadow of their presence, you, diminished, crawl toward s solitary haunt.
I, on the verge of speaking, when the old woman laid her finger on my lips, and said— Give, and expect nothing in return, and even less than nothing. It is your only chance of getting off this island. Then, … Continue reading
The aureate secrets of silence, stuff stars are made from, and us, cocooned in gauzy slumbers, wink and blink and nod till well-scored we become cinders in a torch song, long-since faded.
(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Winter at the Window of my Atelier”) Winter frame-up of god’s run-on fingerprints, evidence of weary sorrow, mounting, unfinished.
(Written in response to Joe Sorren’s “While the Trucks on the Highway all Howl”) While the trucks on the highway all howl, beneath a milk-bottle sky, Sunday’s children, curious and bulb-headed, lay vigorous claim to Paradise. Non-profit architects, they sit … Continue reading
Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged Artwork, beach, children, Joe Sorren, John Biscello, Literary, paradise, Poetry, sand-castles, sunday, trucks
Ready or not, here I come. I can still hear my voice calling out, a bright echo in a jagged loop. Hide and seek was a game we used to play all the time. At … Continue reading
(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Sunday Afternoon on Kolin Island”) The camera’s lucid eye swaddles them in gauze, reverse cocoon effect and causal brakes of a fugue, fast-tracking lives to ashen blanks.