Tag Archives: Brooklyn
I have started working on my new novel: No Man’s Brooklyn. A return to the bones of childhood, and to tangled roots. A return to the gritty lore of Bensonhurst.
There was always plenty of tomorrow-talk, bright ribbons of noise amounting to nothing. What we would do, where we would go, how we’d become this or that. We erected fragile monuments to ourselves, and expected others to pay their respects, … Continue reading
They say you can’t go home again. I don’t know who “they” are, but apparently this mysterious phantom collective is well-stocked in facts, aphorisms and guidelines. I was going home again, to Brooklyn, though the notion of return, … Continue reading
At the edge of a remote island, (sirens in the distance) modeling jigsaw scars, cracked veins, and an oily sheen, a fast fade dream, a scorched mirage, occurs every evening like clockwork. Walter, jangling his bell, shouting: Good Humor Man, … Continue reading
Excerpt from Raking the Dust, honoring the birthdays of my grandmother (April 15th) and Charlie Chaplin (April 16th). In times of hardship and heartache my grandmother would recite St. Teresa’s Prayer or sing Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile” in a warbly and … Continue reading
Boy on street corner brown bag in his hand, crinkling– Yo, I’ve gotta piss.
In the black and white photo, 1923 written in faded pencil in the lower left hand corner, neatly scalloped perforations along the borders—my grandmother and her sister, Rose, are standing on the beach. Coney Island. In the background the … Continue reading
We didn’t talk about it, but we knew we’d never amount to anything, no matter what we did. No matter how celebrated the accomplishment, no matter how big the lie and the audience buying it, nothing could ever … Continue reading