Tag Archives: childhood
Summer in Brooklyn, hydrant dreaming in graffiti– legends of childhood.
With the grave mortal nearness that only distance can bring, we enter the bruised, secret heart of our childhood, a stalker’s negative proof, slow-burned to exposure and fade.
Excerpt from Nocturne Variations When Piers was six she fell into a well. The well was abandoned and no longer had any water in it. If there would have been water in it, Piers would have drowned. Sometimes she’d imagine … Continue reading
Childhood, as a static port or fixed constellation, remains an ongoing historical fiction, in which small deaths, consigned to witnesses, inevitably breed the shadows of regeneration.
(Poem 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 … Continue reading
My father was a tough guy. How tough, it’s hard to say. And when I say tough I mean it in the street-Brooklyn sort of way. Neighborhood-tough, man-tough, like that. As I’ve grown older I’ve realized it’s much more … Continue reading
The coke parties were my favorite. It was when everyone was happiest. Everyone meant my father, my mother, and their friends, Teddy and Debby. Occasionally, Debby’s brother, Wayne, was part of everyone. My mother would say—Teddy and Debby … Continue reading
It has become my last refuge, a solitary outpost upon which the broken bit of sun seared into my palm, mirroring stigmata, has given my name as refutable evidence and signature.
To sharpen one’s teeth against solvent pages and grated silence is the bite in the air the old poets crowed about, and the wind saliently scales, as if reverse were a condition and not Memory fasting into childhood’s hale.