Jun
2
i can’t remember what i was saving this for
a thousand times, yes.
“And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.” — James Joyce
May
8
snapshot: a formal feeling comes
The streets were slick as I worked my way down the bumpy side walk of Christie Street. Late for me, but not for the neighborhood, it was still on the empty side for a Wednesday night. I caught myself wondering if maybe it was the weather or the money that was keeping people in. Most likely, a little of both.
Past the ragged end of Sarah D Roosevlet Park, turning at the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge and Christie ends and I round the corner along the side of the bridge on Forsyth St. The odors that come from this block are notorious. I pick my way through piles of half rotting produce and tied up bunches of boxes. During the day, the block is a bustling mash of fruit and vegetable vendors, shoe repair men, a grilled meat cart and a smash of people of all stripes coming to get 10 cucumbers for $1. No, you can not get less than 10.
Half way down the block, I notice that it doesn’t stink. In fact, the odor is remarkably pleasant. The smell is such an unexpected oddity that it takes me a moment to place it. It is the fresh, clean, bright smell of watermelon. There were several, must have been recently, smashed watermelons on the side walk. For a brief moment, I was transported to summer and green and waves of southern beaches. All that from just the smell of smashed watermelon on a New York City sidewalk.
Apr
3
a future perfect
blade runner-esque subway light at the bleeker street station. there were craft services and trailers across lafayette so i can only guess that maybe this is for a movie.
Mar
9
other secrets
architecturally speaking
artistically rendering
sonically
ersatz punk rock
as a soft warning
an oubliette
Feb
11
Snapshot: City
snapshot of the city:
it’s late. maybe around 2 or 3 in the morning. the august heat had settled into a light haze hovering just so above the pavement. just so as to catch and magnify the orange of the sodium lights. just so as to make a warm glow all over.
i am just off the bridge. brazenly riding my bike in the middle of the deserted, narrow streets. i am completely enjoying the freedom of the hour and the slight chill of my sweat mixing with the amber moisture in the air. my hair being slightly lifted and tossed with my movement.
turning down eldridge street, edging into chinatown, i hear a high bell. a sweet ringing out. one. two. three. i can’t place where the sound is coming from. then, there it is again. like a call from the sea. it’s lonely so late at night, looking for company. i slow down and there it is! the source. a store front a blaze in golden and red lights, a solitary monk. his insence buring, perfuming the heavy air. his bell chiming calling for lost souls.
i slept easy that night.
