Sunday, April 29, 2012


Being in the company of good friends makes you lose yourself, which allows you to completely be yourself.

Sunday, April 22, 2012


The sound of shattering dishes across the air shaft. Distant dog barking echoes. It's raining and he wishes it were storming. The rodent in the ceiling is shaking the cage again. Where are the sirens? A man smashes furniture in the courtyard. She touches her elbow to his -- a decade ago, a subtle flirt, now a fearful scream as if she were turning herself inside out through her mouth, her elbow.  A plane howls to JFK. Everything is coming down.

On Beauty

I'd like to write a poem about her that embellishes nothing. No observation, just an objective being. The reader would know her furrowed brow under headphones on a Q train over Queens. What's left of the sunlight after it's fought threw Manhattan is reflected in her face. But I can't do that. There's a bird in her throat that cries and cries and claws her tongue. Its wings are breaking behind her face. She taps her foot to the rhythm.


Journal Excerpts

The city is a different place in each season, but what doesn't change?

Microphysically I'm a different person between  now...

and now.

I like taking a local train and watching the passengers change down each passing platform: skin color, clothing, expressions, posture, height, width.

On the top of Fort Tryon Park, boys and girls were practicing freestyle walking. Whenever the girls separated from the boys, each group behaved differently from the other. Each was quieter. The boys hurt themselves less. The girls tossed their hair less.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012


I heard your laugh on
the street
but I didn't
because I didn't want to
not see you