July 2020
Echo
Tonight I’m craving the kerchunk of a rewind button and the ritual of scotch-taping the edge of a cassette
Run
They say you never see a cheetah stretch, but maybe I should. My legs always hurt.
Anchors
Rode the subway home in an empty car except for me and an old woman wearing a t-shirt that said, “Love is so gangster.”
Soul
These medieval Catholics were haunted men who desperately wrestled with the question of a soul, not like the playful Greeks who made up the world as they went along.
The Diver
A short story published as part of the Haunted Passages series in the Heavy Feather Review. It began with the half-remembered image of a woman grinning as she plunged into an industrial canal.
Spear
And what is my intuition telling me? My first thought is to turn down the volume on the world so I can hear.
Remembrance
There’s a strange dynamic to this nightly journal, this sensation of writing against time. Or more precisely: writing for myself in the future.
Breakup
Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.
Empty
Ten years later, I still remember the sight of a young couple marching along an empty desert road in Nevada.
Fiction
Lately I’ve been torn between the possibilities of fiction versus my compulsion to record each day’s events in this nightly journal.
Rain
There’s something oddly soothing about the sound of traffic peeling down wet streets on a rainy night.
Embers
Maybe it’s an ancestral memory of bearing witness through the night while tending to the flames.