Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Taking Aim

Spray-painted : Greed

Thursday, November 24, 2011


Breakfast of BKLYN champions.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Construction Crew


                       there was enough space to leave room for my curiosity.

a gust of wind has angled the gates; while Our flag does not wave; our Brooklyn soil shifts.

a boy steps toward his world:  Construction Ahead.  Where is his hard-hat?  The future is a risk.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Graffiti Gravitas

                                 Somerville, Massachusetts.  Ride Safely.
                                                                         Helmets aren't optional.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Bike Occupation

Q line en route to Manhattan.  Weekend.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Occupying Brooklyn

Shot dead
Pistol to the head

Saw it first
in a book.
 Remember them?

Battle hymn of the Republic

Some, cloaked in Christianity
others cling to Talmudic takes
Allah is one mentality.

Beyond the heroine’s grave

The hero’s heart
Our true majesty

Returning, I remembered
wasn’t necessarily
a measure of greed

And helped myself
to humankind’s
infinite knowing
and peaceful

Strength and courage
my sister

Be brave.
 Freedom saves.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

A bird's life.

Life changes fast.
Life changes in the instant.  [Joan Didion: The Year of Magical Thinking]

So too, a bird’s trajectory; its intended destination —what we humans know and define as ETA [estimated time of arrival].

We are quite accustomed; reconciled to knowing when —except when we are pulled away from the predictable gamesmanship of our mornings — Bright and clear; translucent as toast.

In that moment of “change” I maneuvered the melting butter on a piece of 12-grain with a New West knife; poured a calorie conscious concoction of Florida’s Natural and Simply Grapefruit; bowed my head to give thanks for all that was before me when the storm door’s THUD  interrupted my flow.

Without hesitation’s perilous possibility, I rushed to the source of the sound and found the bird — sideways —clawed feet exposed; breathing —in what appeared to be a panicked rhythm.

My heartbeat quickened; remembering a lesson from summering lakeside in Pennsylvania:  “Never pick up a bird without a barrier between your skin and its feathers.” 

With a cocktail napkin I turned the bird upright.  Motionless, save for the evidence it supplied of still being alive —chest pounding. 

“C’mon now — you’re alright.  Get your bearings; then fly,” I said, hopefully; prayerfully.

More than ten minutes but fewer than fifteen is how long the bird needed to regain its composure.  I went to the refrigerator thinking it required some bread [for strength].   When I returned to serve it some breakfast; it was gone.

The Ambition Bird [excerpts][Anne Sexton]
The bird wants to be dropped
From a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
And come out painted on a ceiling.
He wants to take bread and wine
And bring forth a man happily floating in the Carribean.
He wants to take leave among strangers
Passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.