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Hudson Terrace
Posted on March 27, 2014 2 Comments
Meanwhile- just across the river- contemplated, anticipated is always how the folly rings- abounding, resurrected and in venturesome darkness. There is peculiarity in the unbounded rhythm so flayed and flawed in its own fragility, rounding the turn peeking out from behind the building- glinted, blazed in sunlight bridge- adorned as it jumps up each morning […]
Tin Ceiling
Posted on March 27, 2014 Leave a Comment
I am no storyteller – yet I tell myself this story endlessly. The lights in the evening windows are truths gloaming and tell again of a place, where underneath the geometry of a tin ceiling – before over-painting and time muted its sharp lines – the smallest is there, a composite of a coming supernova, […]
Factory of the Elite
Posted on March 25, 2014 Leave a Comment
Fatal lip gloss girls pucker self-conscious memories in a deep twisted taste of twinkling blush. Sinking that tooth in my bottom lip, fighting those tears of exhausting expectations harbored for mere mortals like myself, in the hollow trench sloshes astringent acceptance of standards inhumanely high -too high indeed- even unattainable, for the awkward and ill […]
Nonna
Posted on March 21, 2014 9 Comments
After The Edge of Night, but before Mike Douglas – the black and white snowy antenna leans sideways out the sunlit kitchen window, trailing dust motes above the sink – the lunch dishes are almost dried. Your grainy skin, with its lost turgor, its ropy, blue-green veins – our family tree traced lovingly on the […]
Sunday for Spite
Posted on March 21, 2014 Leave a Comment
In that half turn from Oraton onto Chester, a boat and a stove kiss in the morning mist off the Passaic, crunchy brownish weeds vying to separate them – bland tang of a sticky communion wafer clinging to my tongue. I run it over my teeth, and look out the back of the Oldsmobile -the […]
Morning Train
Posted on March 19, 2014 Leave a Comment
When I awake with my usual bloody lip salted and curdled in a mutinous fugue of fatigue, only then is every next day of manic perception ushered in. Another day ahead -I pray only for blackness- for to be defined by the monotony of progression is to be emotionally waterboarded. It’s an erratic regimen, erotic […]
Girls with Journals: Why I’m Not a Real Writer
Posted on October 13, 2013 Leave a Comment
I always wanted to be the type of girl who kept a journal. Someone who wrote droll daily observations in a pretty, Paisley diary from Barnes and Noble, thinly-lined. Something a Jane Austen character would daintily clutch, while wearing some Georgian empire-waisted dress, cleverly sitting down in a sunny morning room to jot down flawlessly […]
A Girl by the Bridge 
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